Unveiled
by himawarixxsandz
Summary: When the lights go down, and the curtain comes up-- All bets are off. Sequel to Secrets. TRC AU: Fourth in series.
1. Teaser

What can I say?

It's been a while, my butterflies. And by now, I'm sure that you know our entire alphabet like the backs of your hands. You know just how Angelic and Divine and Sacred they can be, and you know just how dirty and conniving and devious and selfish and dark they've always been. But they're allowed to be. Everyone's allowed to be.

And now that I've moved on to another generation, I must say. Nothing still can compare to the scandals F and Y pulled; the tantrums M threw; the drama S and the Maestro conducted; the tension F and deary K caused; and of course, the hilarity K-kun causes for himself.

No generation before them has ever pulled me in, and after them, no generation can ever interest me as much again.

So I'm sad to say (or am I?) that when I'm bored—I'm bored. If I force myself to write about mundane socialite children being all good and holier-than-thou (which is precisely what these nouveau rich are doing), I won't be able to stand it. Sometimes, I get so bored that I find myself wishing _some_ of our ex-Trinity members were straight so that I could at least look forward to their children's generation.

Ah. Well.

It's a generation gap, I suppose. We can't stay young forever. Not even me.

I know. Gaspeth. But it's true. And since I'm not one to shirk from anything—whether life, age, or alcohol—I also suppose that I should get on with business and choose something (someone) that will determine how the future to come regarding socialites will be conducted. After all, I can't just leave the world without so much as a _Goodbye_ and a _Don't die_.

That's right, my butterflies. You heard me. This time around, the prize for winning is to be my heir.

And you'll have to stick around 'till the end to see me Unveil who it is.

We've got some tough competitors, and just because everyone's an adult now legally, doesn't mean they have to act like it. Because, c'mon, if you've been handed everything in life—from diapers to diamonds—do you really expect to know what the definition of 'fair' is?

But I digress. It wouldn't be nice of me to badmouth our Circus. Especially considering what they're about to go through.

You see, darlings, you've only seen our dearest butterflies when they were still under the age of consent—or around it—and thus, they were all still beneath their parents shelters and wings. Blackmail couldn't touch them—it could only touch their parents.

The thing is, once you're parents are no longer responsible for you, you become a full-blown socialite and every little naughty thing you did in your past will come and bite you in your perky, little ass. For serious. It will. And the only thing you can ever do to stop it begins with the letter 'B' and rhymes with the word 'Tribe'. Let me hear you say it.

Yet, sometimes even then it isn't enough. Because there are people out there who will do anything to get what they want. And they aren't always socialites. Some of them despise socialites with every fiber of their being. Though honestly, who wouldn't? From an outsider's eyes, socialites are the people who have everything, and yet, make nothing of it.

Oh. And remember the 'Fuuka Thing'?

Yeah. That's coming back to haunt them.

Better get ready to rumble, yeah?

--Someday, you'll know what the W in bWitch really means


	2. Prologue: Media

Prologue: Media

"_What was it we said about appearances? Yes, they can be deceiving. But most of the time, what you see is what you get."_

_--Gossip Girl from "The Handmaiden's Tale"_

* * *

The crowd erupted.

"And he blocked the shot! Kimihiro Watanuki, number seven, blocked the shot! Spain looks furious! The referee has called this game match and point to Japan!" The reporter bounced up and down ecstatically at having her cameraman be the first to get the winning picture. She pointed frantically down to the stadium, where the audience was currently mobbing the Japanese National Team. "The winning team is being flooded by their fans, as Kimihiro Watanuki will surely be his home country's—holy, what?"

Her cameraman winced around the eyepiece. "Um…should we…censor--?"

She squinted at the goalpost. "It looks like," she continued into her microphone, as the mob on the field began forming a circle around Kimihiro Watanuki's goal. "It looks like Kimihiro Watanuki has been tackled. By a rabid fan? By an angry losing opponent? By…" She squinted again. "Oh my _God_." Her cameraman backed away three paces, as the reporter swung around and began jabbing at him with the microphone. "Get a shot of that. Now. _Oh_ my God—it's the regional team's _Shizuka Doumeki_."

"Shizuka Doumeki…" The cameraman narrowed his eyes down at the goalpost, where it more or less looked like everyone was cheering as Shizuka Doumeki was eating Kimihiro Watanuki's face, among other things. "…is…with…Kimihiro Watanuki…? What are they…?"

The reporter turned cheerfully back at the camera—even if her cameraman had seemed to have passed out—"Signing out from the world championship, I hope you all have a pleasant evening celebrating the wins and even mourning the losses, because I'm sure that our winning goalie sure seems to be doing that." She made a salute to the lens and hoped to God Almighty that they would let her have the uncensored version of this tape.


	3. Fun In the Sun

Chapter One: Fun In the Sun

"_Unlike the rest of us, sex, lies, and scandal never take a vacation. Instead, they take the Long Island Expressway and head east—to the Hamptons. Some of us would say summer is the busiest season—think Park Avenue, but with tennis whites, and Band de Soleil. The players change, but the game remains the same."_

_--Gossip Girl from "Summer, Kind of Wonderful"_

* * *

Fai Fluorite stretched his body languidly against the beach chair and sighed amusedly around a glass of lemonade—lemonade spiked with liquor. The indirect sunlight of the tropics shone through the John Varvatos aviators shielding his eyes. A slight breeze whipped sand into the air slightly enough so that it touched against his skin—it ruffled his hair, at his swimming trunks, and at the white, open-faced shirt.

Beside him, on a beach chair pulled up close to a sitting position rather than a sunbathing one, Sakura Kinomoto sat almost upright, in a polka-dotted, brown and blue Chloe bikini, her legs curled on the towel that lay across the chair, and her lemonade—spiked with nothing—was nestled contentedly in her lap, cushioned with her hands.

They were looking out at the beautiful, blue Pacific Ocean, watching Syaoran Li and Kurogane You-ou surf.

Or, for more accuracy, they were watching Kurogane surf, and Syaoran _attempt_ to surf under the martial artist's tutelage.

And although Fai would never say this out loud, what with Sakura being present, but Syaoran was failing rather epically. From where they sat, Fai could see strains of Kurogane's patience beginning to wane thin, but other than that, it was interesting to see exactly how thin aforementioned patience could be stretched before it finally snapped.

"It looks like Syaoran's managed to stay upright for a few more seconds, huh?" Fai mused, his eyes sliding to Sakura.

"Um…yes?" She blinked.

He sighed dramatically. "It's sad though, how they have to wear body suits to surf—if they wear trunks, the waves will drag them off. Such a waste of skin, don't you think? It's not like we mind them getting naked…"

Sakura flamed red. And blinked again.

Fai was amused. It was amusing, because it somehow seemed that Syaoran brought out the long lost virgin in Sakura, and that garnered just far too many laughs from the violinist.

Though it was true—what Fai had said. The fact that Kurogane had to wear a body suit was a waste of perfectly good beach time. Certainly, it could be more than made up for later in the privacy of their own suite, but there was just something about the beach that had to be appreciated in public.

Especially considering Fai's long history with hurt and being in the public eye.

He blinked, startled a little, when he felt Sakura's small hand close over his. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. "I forgot to say thanks for inviting us to come here with you. Everyone always goes to the beaches in the southeast and all, you know? I never thought the U.S. would have nice ones like this. And it's super convenient since my meets are just a few states up, and Syaoran just finished his game here."

"You're very welcome," Fai inclined his head, and his eyes drifted to his cell phone on the table between their chairs—a reply to the earlier text message he'd sent. "It wasn't my idea to come here, though."

And it hadn't been. In all honesty, it'd been Kurogane's. The story was rather amusing, and Fai had used it to evict more than a handful of laughs from his brother.

It'd started over two weeks ago, when Fai and Kurogane had had one of their rare coincidences of being in the same city for a concert/competition. If Fai remembered correctly, it'd been Ibiza, Spain. And over a tapas bar beneath the smoldering Spanish sun, Kurogane had managed to punch out what Fai now supposed was to have been a lover's invitation, and what'd come out more like a terrorist threat, complete with a bribe to the side.

The bribe being a plump white bunny as large as a cat, with mischievous violet eyes and a nametag that'd read 'Mokona'.

Fai had stared through the bars of the cage and then, had proceeded to stare at Kurogane in a vaguely incredulous sort of way.

"Shut up," Kurogane had half-pleaded, half-snarled. "It's a fucking rabbit, all right? That demon bitch told me to give it to you. Said that girly guys like stuff like this."

Fai had raised an eyebrow at that, leaning down to stare at the creature again. "Rabbits fall underneath the category of 'woodland critters', Kuro-tan, and calling…_this_ a 'critter' is rather pushing it, don't you think?" He reached a finger through the bars and touched the animal's nose. "But if you just wanted to ask me to go to the beach, I would've gone without the bribe, you do know."

"It's not a bribe, asshole." Kurogane had scowled. Coughed. "Er…but even if it was, it's not for the beach thing."

Fai had taken another spoonful of potatoes. "No?" He'd grinned.

"Um…well…so…the beach's in America. South Carolina, actually. And…well…Mioru's team's headed over there in a few anyhow…so…I was wondering…if…we…could bring him with us." Kurogane had winced at the end of his words.

And then Fai had laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And had laughed until the businessmen and women on their lunch break around them had turned and stared just a little. "So…" the violinist said when he'd managed to stop, "the rabbit's a bribe after all? So that I'd say yes you could take Mioru with us?" He'd smiled at Kurogane then, but the martial artist would probably describe it as more of a leer. "Aw. You thought I'd be jealous. Like a suspicious housewife."

"N-no," Kurogane had sputtered, his hand reaching out in preparation to whip back the bribe.

Fai's hand had clamped shut over the cage's other handle before the athlete could make do. "Mokona is his name, huh? He's cute. I'll keep him. And yes, since you worked so hard to bribe me, Mioru can come." He'd giggled. "Though you _do_ know, I would've said yes anyhow."

And then Kurogane had vowed to never listen to Yuuko Ichihara ever again.

But as it had turned out, Mioru had declined their offer. Meaning, Fai and Kurogane had three tickets to South Carolina, U.S.A. And so, Mioru had sent Syaoran as his replacement, and with Syaoran, Sakura with her own ticket to South Carolina, as she had a gymnastics meet there in just a few weeks.

And that'd been how Fai, Kurogane, Syaoran, Sakura, and Mokona-The-Oversized-Rabbit had come to arrive in Myrtle Beach, SC during the late weeks of August.

"Well, I'll have to thank Kurogane, too, then, huh?" Sakura smiled again brightly. "It's so great that Syaoran can have other friends outside his soccer team, I think. Especially since Kurogane knew Fuuka really well," she said more quietly. Her smile stayed, though.

Fai looked at the sky. "Yeah. It's great."

* * *

Seishiro finished replying to Fai's apology over having to fly out of Ibiza without so much as a goodbye kiss or even sending a replacement—although, it would be hard pressed to find a replacement first chair for Fai Fluorite—and followed it up with a snarky little text to his little brother that'd probably get him punched some time in the not-so-far future.

But back to Fai. The intent had been clear. And he'd been planning to be so nice as inviting Fai and his boy toy along with him and Subaru to the clear beaches of Ibiza once their concerts were done.

After all, no matter how beautifully Subaru blew that trumpet—it never changed how much more Seishiro preferred him to be blowing something else entirely.

Currently, however, as Seishiro leaned back in his cushioned chair, shaded by the roof of the small cabana hovering over him, Subaru was doing no blowing, and instead, was riding Spanish waves via body board. Seishiro pushed the Dolce & Gabbana wraparound sunglasses from his eyes onto his head, as he watched his Boy Blue shake the water from his hair and walk towards him across the sand, body board beneath one arm and pressing against his side.

Unlike surfing, body boarding constituted no learning, no body suit, nothing at all. It was floating on the water rushing to the shore, only with the assistance of a hard surface, so no skin was grated against the sand.

As Subaru came into close proximity, Seishiro reached a hand up, brushing against the trumpeter's face, and his eyes widened with infinitesimal expectation. Subaru half-smiled, as he steadied himself, one hand on Seishiro's bare shoulder, and leaned down to kiss the Maestro.

When they drew apart, Seishiro wrinkled his nose, tongue whipping over his lips. "What?" Subaru said, a laugh just beneath his tone.

Seishiro grinned. "Tastes like the ocean—I can taste the salt."

The tips of Subaru's ears pinked. The smile shook amusedly on his lips. "I saw you pick up your phone. Who were you talking to?"

"Ah." Seishiro painted a wounded expression over his face, his arm simultaneously snaking around Subaru's waist and yanking him into the space between his legs so abruptly that the body board went flying into the sand. "That was Fai. He was asking me for forgiveness for abandoning us—his orchestra mates—so suddenly. And of course, being the gracious human that I am, I granted him as such."

"You're gracious?"

Seishiro laughed, and used the strings of Subaru's swimming trunks to pull him close for another saltwater kiss. "Of course I am." He finished it off by licking Subaru's softly smiling lips, and said, "And even more so considering that Fai has probably been waiting hours on edge for my forgiveness, what with the time difference."

"I doubt it," Subaru chuckled. "Kurogane gave him a bunny. I managed to sneak a look at it before they left. Even if it looks a little bloated because of the size, it's cute."

Seishiro pulled on a wounded face again. He tugged at a lock of the trumpeter's damp hair. "Well. _I_ gave you a garden."

"Yes." Subaru looked faintly amused and somehow mortified at the remembrance. "Three."

"No," the Maestro stretched out the word. He grinned. "Four."

Subaru bowed his head, sighing. "Seishiro…look—the cherry blossom trees were fine, seeing as your family's company cultivates them. The rock garden was intriguing. The water garden was brilliant. But I really think—"

"It's a bamboo garden," Seishiro said, smiling brightly enough so that Subaru felt the need to pull his sunglasses back on. "And besides, you aren't living by yourself—it's _my_ house, too. I can have another garden if I want, can't I?"

"Sure." Another sigh. "Sure."

Seishiro smiled inwardly—a curious little smile, as he gently guided Subaru's face back towards his, the slender wrist wrapped beneath the conductor's fingers. "Subaru…" he hummed playfully. "Do you love me?"

Subaru exhaled one last sigh for the day, and returned the smile because even if his mind was completely exasperated, for some reason or another, his mouth and tongue just moved on their own—all the way to Seishiro's lips.

* * *

Amaterasu leaned on the railing of the suite's balcony, the saltwater wind whipping at her hair—at the skirt of the Carolina Herrera swathed around her body. She tilted her head to the side, resting her cheek on her knuckles and taking in the sight of a conductor and his trumpeter tumbling into the sand, before rolling into the cover of the cabana.

The cellist had a feeling that they would come in a few hours later, with Seishiro half-carrying an exhausted Subaru, both covered in sand and water and sun, and the Maestro would lightly remark on how he and Subaru would probably be a little late to the dinner plans they'd made with Amaterasu, Souma, and Tomoyo.

That being said, Tomoyo was most likely downstairs, sitting in the indoor sunroom, trying not to drop her cell phone in the hot tub as she texted away to Sakura Kinomoto, spamming the gymnast within an inch of her life. And Souma was power napping behind Amaterasu herself on their bed.

The suite was triply connected. Amaterasu and Souma's in the middle, Tomoyo's to the left, and Seishiro and Subaru's to the right.

In all honesty, Amaterasu didn't know why she hadn't just taken Souma and run for it to Ibiza's airport as soon as they were on break. Probably because Tomoyo could run faster than the older women had remembered, and Seishiro had just grown that much more conniving.

Although, if Amaterasu was striving to be technical, it wasn't Tomoyo's fault that she and Souma were stuck with the eternally-honeymooning-bunny-rabbits in Ibiza so much as it was Yuui Fluorite's.

Because Yuui Fluorite had somehow managed to escape Seishiro faster than even Fai. Fai had caught the first plane the day after their last concert in Ibiza had ended. Yuui had caught the last plane _the_ _night_ their last concert in Ibiza had ended. And he'd promised Amaterasu and Souma a quick getaway along with him to Bali, where Kamui and Fuuma currently were.

But apparently, Seishiro had caught on, and in a rather comical-if-this-situation-didn't-involve-them betrayal of sorts, Yuui had switched tickets, called Ashura, pulled strings, and he was strapped in for the next flight back to Japan. Which left Amaterasu and Souma rather stuck, and pulled around after all by Seishiro to vacation the summer away in Ibiza. In other words, they were to spend the rest of the summer in Ibiza, more or less not being able to spend time alone in peace, because they had to live with the _hint hint_ of Subaru and Seishiro fucking.

And it didn't change the fact that Tomoyo was here, too. Although, Amaterasu felt that her younger sister might deserve it just the tiniest bit, after dragging her and Souma down with her, when Seishiro had found out that the designer had been planning to escape with Fai in order to see Sakura. Plus, unlike Amaterasu, Tomoyo had only been in Ibiza for the end-of-summer fashion show.

But, life was life, and right now, life was Seishiro purposely entering through Amaterasu and Souma's suite just to spite them (and Souma waking up, fairly bewildered at the sight of Seishiro, body sprinkled with sand and water, and Subaru, half asleep and naked in his arms).

* * *

"Your phone's ringing."

Large fingers holding a small face. "Ignore it." Large hands sliding down a small body.

"What if it's an emergency?" A sigh. A hitched breath. Glazed eyes.

"Huh. Doubt it." Arms lifting the small body onto cool granite. "'S probably my bastard big brother again."

Slim legs wrapping around a strong waist. "Probably."

"He's probably waiting for Subaru to wake up for another round"—wet sounds, tongue against tongue, lips coming apart and back together—"and he's got nothing better to do, so he's calling me."

"Wait…" A breathy shout—a harsh moan. "Wait…they're not supposed to be awake yet in Sp—Fuuma, _don't_ just—_oh_—" Fabric hitting the ground, zippers zipping down, buttons plopping through.

A deep chuckle. "Y'know, after a while, it's kinda funny how you always talk when we do it." A suckling sound—lips against skin, skin against tongue.

"_Shut_ up." A gasp. "_Oh_—_fuck_." A pant. "_There_."

A slip. "Whoa." Alarmed. "Careful." An arm catching a limp body, stopping the fall against hard granite, fingers through soft, dark hair—damp with sweat. "Don't wanna hit your head again."

Rushed breaths. "That time was _your_ fault, remember?" Attempts at anger. All failing.

Laughter. "All right, I know. Sorry, sorry, 'kay, Kamui?"

A pause. "Fine." Another pause. "Make it up to me, then."

"'Course." Fuuma grinned, taking Kamui's arms and pulling them around his neck. "Hold tight." He felt the writer tighten his legs around his waist, gathering leverage to lift his entire body entirely from the granite countertop, body to body right up against Fuuma.

Their erections brushed.

Once Fuuma had pushed himself in, once he'd made sure that he had Kamui panting and thrashing, he managed to thrust his hips up and sneak a look at the name of the caller displayed on his cell phone's screen. Apparently, both he and Kamui had been wrong. Instead of Seishiro Sakurazuka, the caller displayed another name entirely. And Fuuma would've been able to concentrate more on what this person could possibly want, if not for what went through Kamui's lips next—the words that promptly rushed all of the remaining blood from Fuuma's brain down to his cock.

"Bali is way too hot for this kind of stuff," Kamui gasped out, as Fuuma went in for another deep shove.

"Turn up the AC, then," Fuuma shrugged, giving the writer's cheek a swift lick. He held the slim hips tighter, bit his lip, and aimed again for the prostate because Kamui really should stop talking so much during sex.

It sort of worked. Kamui gave out a high keening sound, and his body arched perfectly into Fuuma's. But it didn't stop the writer from saying against Fuuma's lips, with innocently raised eyebrows, "I never said hot was bad."

This, Fuuma thought, coming in again and watching Kamui scream, was probably what it felt like to conquer the world.

Kind of awesome.

* * *

His phone was ringing.

It was ringing persistently right against his nightstand, buzzing into his ear and vibrating around the surface until it finally bumped into the digital clock and fell off onto the floor with a loud thump.

Yuui blinked sleepily around the pale arm that was wrapped around his shoulders, and another on his waist, holding his body to a firm, bare chest. He squinted through the darkness and tried to orient his vision enough to grasp what the little digital letters spelled out in the glowing screen of his cell phone.

He sighed to himself, attempting to flutter the sleep out from his eyes so they would remain open for more than just at intervals of a few seconds. The pianist softly tongued a patch of skin on the arm over his shoulders and whispered, "Ashura. I need to get something."

There was a barely-awake murmur behind him, and the arms loosened their hold. Yuui slipped through and ducked down clumsily in the darkness to pick up the cell phone, opening it and instinctively narrowing his eyes at the bright light. He blinked a few more times, in rapid succession, and then read through the blinding light as best he could.

It was only three seconds later that he chucked the phone at the carpet again in sleep-deprived irritation. Did Amaterasu _not know_ of the time difference in Japan? If she wanted to complain about the fact that Yuui's witty escapism skills were far superior to hers, couldn't she do it when it _wasn't_ two hours before sunrise?

Yuui climbed his naked self back beneath the covers and this time, turned all the way around so he was staring right at Ashura's sleeping face. The artist's eyes opened just the tiniest bit, revealing only enough so that his eyes looked like dark slits. "Who was it?"

"Fucking Amaterasu," Yuui whispered back, yawning into the pillow.

Ashura smiled in a subconscious sort of way. "You _did_ ditch her. Leaving her in the hands of the Maestro, no less."

Had Yuui been closer to wakefulness, he would've looked mortally offended. In a mocking kind of way. "The gifted shouldn't be blamed because they're gifted."

"But the guileful can be blamed because of misusing their guile?"

"It's three in the morning. It's illegal for any self-respecting citizen to argue intellectually this early. Go to sleep." Yuui touched his forehead to Ashura's collarbone and slid deeper under the blankets. He felt long arms start to rewind their way around his waist, and the pianist smiled to himself, closing his eyes.

But apparently, Ashura couldn't just leave it at that. He always had to get the last word in.

"Tomorrow we're going car shopping. You'll send two apology Vipers to Ibiza via expressway."

Yuui had just enough energy left to bite Ashura's shoulder in half-hearted retaliation, before falling back to sleep.

* * *

Subaru's eyes fluttered open to semi-darkness, and that same darkness made semi only because of the light wafting from Seishiro's hand. The trumpeter stretched across the bed, tangling his limbs in the blankets strewn around, beneath, and over his naked body. He used his fingers to rub some of the sleep out of his eyes, letting his vision adjust to the darkness. By way of what was seeping through the curtains across the room, he'd guess that it was an hour or so after midnight.

Seishiro must have heard him rustling in the bed. The Maestro turned around from where he stood shirtless, gazing out the door to the balcony—one hand holding his cell phone, and the other tucked into the back pocket of his pajama pants.

Ah. That was where the light came from.

In an odd sight of synchronicity, Subaru slowly pushed himself up, as Seishiro slowly took step by step toward the bed, kneeling onto it and taking his free hand from his pocket and cupping Subaru's cheek. "Shh. Go back to sleep." It was whispered against Subaru's forehead.

Subaru let himself be guided back down onto the pillows, head in Seishiro's lap as the conductor resettled himself in the bed. "…Who…?" He blinked up tiredly at the Maestro's face, aglow in the cell phone's light. A hand dipped into the trumpeter's hair, absently stroking. "Seishiro…"

"Mm?" Through the sparse lighting, Subaru could just make out the frown on the Maestro's face, along with the accompanying furrow of eyebrows. With a fully awake mind, and perhaps real sunlight, Subaru would even go so far as to say Seishiro, the ever-smiling-ever-cheery-until-it-hurt-your-eyes-to-look conductor, was glaring.

_Glaring._

At his cell phone, rather than an actual person granted, but all the same. Really.

Subaru took Seishiro's hand from his hair, and held it between his own, slightly smaller, two. He kissed the knuckles carefully.

Seishiro looked down with infinitesimal alarm in his eyes, but most parts soft concern. "You should go back to sleep." He half-smiled softly, ducking his head down to touch his tongue swiftly against the trumpeter's lips. "Are you okay? No bruises…? Sand scratches, you know."

Subaru knew that it still lingered. Only now sometimes, instead of Seishiro's guilt with what he'd done to Subaru—it was more so, and more often of Seishiro's guilt about letting Subaru forgive him so easily. About coming back to Subaru and letting him forgive the conductor at all. Because forgiveness for something like that just shouldn't be allowed. It'd been nearly five years, and for some reason that Subaru couldn't come up with no matter how hard he tried, Seishiro still wouldn't accept the fact that Subaru forgave him.

Sometimes, Subaru thought that maybe it was because Seishiro needed to forgive himself.

So when times like these came, when Seishiro was trying to make up for all those times before by being twice as hesitant and worried afterward, all Subaru did was cling closer to the conductor's warm body, and kiss the older man's skin.

And when Seishiro buried his face in Subaru's hair in the way that had always been a personal signal to Subaru that he really didn't want to think about this, because it hurt him inside more than it hurt Subaru, even though in a way, that was more than faintly ridiculous, Subaru knew that Seishiro intended to forgive himself—was _trying_ to forgive himself—but he needed more time.

Subaru just smiled to himself then, and closed his eyes as he heard Seishiro snap his cell phone shut, lean back against the headboard and hold Subaru that much tighter.

Really. Most of the time, Subaru thought that Seishiro could be rather silly.

But, the trumpeter supposed, as he felt a ghost of the words _'thank you'_ being breathed against his scalp, that'd been one of the reasons it'd been more than easy to forgive him all those years ago.

"Tell me in the morning, all right?"

* * *

_A/N: Brace yourselves. I'm about to spam you with way too much A/N than should be legal. _

_All right, so as you've obviously noticed, I started off with a quote from GG, with nothing from bWitch to behold. Well...you're not going to get much bWitch in this one, sadly, although you'll get plenty of actualy Yuuko involvement (pockysnightmare, that's to you). And I think I might've put myself in a lot of crap considering that I'll have about four plotlines all intertwined together. Four or five, I lost count. So, hopefully, this will be the ultimate story in the series. I mean, it's the last one. So I thought that I had to have something BOOM. Y'know? _

_And you're reading this instead of a new, nice, angsty chapter of Compelled or Impulse (which I should totally be working on instead) because of the angst. That's why some parts of this are freakily happy. Because the angst is getting to me. But, on the bright side, even WITH the monstrously majorly blehmygawd angst, I'll be updating faster now that I'm back in school. (Because apparently, summer vacation kills the muses dead--'cause I'm just ridiculous that way) BUT, not JUST school._

_HIGH SCHOOL. (Today was my first day--freshmen orientation--and it REALLY killed my brain dead)_

_Reviews, because it's the first chapter, and I know you all know the early chapters suck for me. Plus, my brain is dead. Feel sorry. (And I haven't finished my summer reading. 500+ pages in a week. Procrastinate ahoy.)_

_(Oh. I also put the GG quotes there, because I think that I owe it something to the series that started all of this madness. And, moreover, I just love GG--the persona, not the series, although I love that, too, just in a roundabout, kind of way)_

_(One more thing, I swear: Even in the first chapter, Subaru and Seishiro still have to drag in angst with them. Even if it is only little teeny pillbug angst, it's still angst. Gawd, you two. What'd I ever do to you?)_


	4. Arrangements

Chapter Two: Arrangements

Subaru absently continued to swirl the churro around in the mug of melted chocolate. He was watching Seishiro make a phone call across the flawlessly set table situated in the sunroom of the resort's restaurant. And although the Maestro's smile was as brightly placed as the sunshine drifting through the windows, Subaru could tell by the sickeningly sweet quality the conductor's voice had gained, that Seishiro would like nothing better than to puncture holes in Fuuma's vital organs right about now.

Perhaps even using his neglected churro for doing so.

And it wasn't just the tone Seishiro was speaking with. It was also the fact that he had scared away half of the waiting staff with his glare-disguised-as-the-gosh-darn-it-happiest-smile expression. Even if Subaru had never been on the receiving end (always just a spectator), he still knew that it was something akin to terrifying.

To put it in short, as Seishiro had explained to Subaru while they'd dressed, Fuuma had received a call from Mioru Aoi a day or two ago, and Mioru had requested that Fuuma oh-so-kindly called up his older brother and ask if he could stay in New York. New York City. Upper East Side.

_Seishiro and Subaru's penthouse building._

And Seishiro had refused. Pointblank. Because there was no way Mioru Aoi would ever step foot in his building—his building, twenty-five stories tall full of his beloved gardens, and studios, and instruments, and many, many, many bedrooms, and a boatload of other stuff that Subaru had always said they didn't need. There was no way Mioru Aoi would step foot in it, much less _live_ in it.

Granted, for a limited period of time, but still.

So now, Seishiro was continuing the phone call against Fuuma's ever-persistent-tirade-of-cheer to convince the Maestro into letting Mioru stay with him and Subaru in New York for just a year. Maybe less. _Just_ a year.

Again. Maybe even _less_.

Again. Seishiro _wouldn't hear_ it.

Which left Subaru wondering why Mioru wanted to stay with _them_ in New York City for a year. Surely, Mioru could rent out a hotel room or a penthouse of his own. True, it wouldn't be as large as an entire penthouse building, but he was one person, and it was only for temporary purposes—whatever they might be.

In all honesty, Subaru had no objections to this arrangement whatsoever. And in all honesty, Subaru wasn't one of the people who thought Mioru was a jackass. He'd gotten much better during the course of the years, really. Besides, it never changed the fact that Mioru's few words to him that one time so many years ago was what had gotten Subaru through becoming part of the Holy Trinity legacy in the end.

Without them, Subaru wasn't sure if he would've given up or not.

Crossing his fingers beneath the table, Subaru gave a little cough, and waited for Seishiro to look up. "Yes?" the Maestro raised an eyebrow, putting his cell phone against his shoulder and putting Fuuma on figurative hold.

"Just let him," Subaru said gently. "It's only a little year, and we've got lots of space. I'm sure he wouldn't ask us if it wasn't important." He raised his eyebrows mildly, and tilted his head.

Seishiro seemed to stare at him for a while, before sighing mutedly, and putting the phone back to his ear. "Yeah, I'm back. What? No. Be quiet. I'm about to be immensely kind." A pause. "Yes. He can stay. Tell him to stop in Barcelona. We'll fly back together. And make sure he buys his own ticket."

There was another long pause, during which Fuuma was most likely talking.

And then, Seishiro smiled cheerily and said into the phone, "Next time I see you, there won't _be_ any more cock for Kamui to suck." With that, the Maestro crushed the phone shut in his hand, and slammed it onto the table with final resound. He looked up and Subaru met his gaze bewilderedly.

Seishiro sighed tragically. "Little brothers are such a burden, Subaru."

Subaru didn't quite know what to say to that. So he settled for gazing oddly at Seishiro. "Um…" he mumbled warily around the chocolate-smothered end of his second churro.

The Maestro let something of a grin slip over his face, standing out of his chair and strolling leisurely over to Subaru's side of the table. Both hands wrapped around the metal armrests of the trumpeter's chair, trapping him in his seat. Seishiro gave a wider grin, and pulled the churro out of Subaru's lips with his own teeth. He replaced it onto the plate, and then promptly kissed Subaru's open mouth.

Subaru fell back against the chair when he felt Seishiro's tongue sweep over the back of his teeth, curling on the inside of his cheeks and tasting like coffee and brown sugar from the churros. The Maestro pulled back just enough so that his nose was touching Subaru's. The golden eyes danced. "_Much_ better than saltwater, chocolate and churros are."

The trumpeter only gave a quiet smile, hands looping around Seishiro's neck. "Want another taste?"

* * *

Mioru stared out the window, watching the clouds still over the tiny terrain below. The white fluff congealed in masses around the wing of the airplane, just visible against the blue background.

He'd woken up minutes ago at the _ding_ and accompanying announcement alerting that the unbuckling of seatbelts was now permitted. Unfortunately, he'd slept through the stewardess's rounds with the drinks, and around this time, he really needed some alcohol. He'd thought about pressing the call button and _asking _the stewardess for a drink, but after a while, it seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

If he was lucky, he'd find a way to fall back to unconsciousness and sleep through the rest of the thirteen-hour flight from Tokyo to Barcelona. He'd left at four in the morning, meaning it'd be a fucking 12:00 AM when he reached Spain. Fuuma had called him more or less in the middle of the night—considering that Mioru had been at his vacation home in Japan, and Fuuma had still been in Bali, it'd been the middle of the night for both, give or take a few hours—and told him that Seishiro had agreed to let him stay in New York with him and Subaru.

His fellow soccer player had also told him that he'd already booked Mioru the earliest flight available to the airport in Barcelona. After that, Mioru had managed to get about two more hours of sleep, before Fuuma woke him up (again) with what he had said was his wake-up-call-of-pre-traveling-encouragement.

Mioru had told him to shut the hell up and go back to fucking his writer.

He leaned back against the headrest and gazed emptily at the weather news that was playing mutedly on the screen embedded into the seat in front of him. Beside him, there were two businessmen, typing away at their laptops, because thanks to Fuuma, Mioru was on the early flight—the one that _only_ workaholic businessmen took. Insane businessmen. Young, quite good-looking businessmen.

If Mioru had the energy to think about it hard enough, he'd probably be able to get a boner. But momentarily, he wanted nothing more than to return to the blissful Land of Nod. Though, he figured that if he intended to get any more sleep on the flight from Barcelona to New York City, he'd best get as tired as possible.

Honestly, he was beginning to think that this whole thing was just a suicide mission that Watanuki had somehow managed to convince him otherwise of.

It'd all began the day after their winning match against Spain, when Mioru and Watanuki had been the last ones left in the hotel lobby, surrounded by Spaniards, rapidly speaking in their native tongue, and going about their business, whilst glaring at intervals at the remaining team members who'd recently felled their precious soccer team. (The Spanish were known for their skill at football, after all.)

Watanuki had been waiting for Doumeki ("That imbecile's always late, honestly.") and Mioru had been waiting, because Kurogane had called him, telling him that he himself was in Ibiza, and he'd might as well visit the soccer player to congratulate him on fucking those Spanish fuckers good and that the martial artist had something to tell him pertaining the U.S. And then, Watanuki had told him that he'd heard from Yuuko Ichihara—who was corresponding with the goalie for some reason—that Kurogane had recently acquired a bribe to prod Fai with in order to let Mioru come with them on vacation to the Carolinas.

After that, it'd went in an easy, rushed slide, with Mioru promptly booking the fastest and soonest flight out of Spain, and back to Tokyo. He'd timed it right enough so that he flew back to Japan on the same plane as Watanuki and Doumeki. Later on, he'd sent an apologetically declining text to Kurogane.

Mioru knew that'd been a terrifically asshole move. But he really didn't think he could've stomached being around Kurogane and Fai, no matter how long it'd been. What, going on nearly six to seven-ish years now? Yeah. Too long to still be in this kind of shit, but it wasn't like Mioru hadn't tried.

Because he _had_.

He'd tried so hard to kill what was left of Kurogane inside of him, but it wouldn't go away. He'd tried so hard to convince himself into thinking that being friends—best friends, _brothers_—was enough, but it wasn't. Mioru didn't want a brotherly relationship. Because no matter how much proof Mioru got that Kurogane was long gone from him, he still couldn't get rid of him completely. And he didn't have the fucking nerve to tell Kurogane to stop coming around for just a while—just a year, maybe two—so that he could heal in the absence.

So he just let the martial artist keep coming back. Again and again, and Mioru's heart just continued to scream under the weight.

He'd only been in Japan for a week, calling up the housekeepers at his L.A. home (where he mainly lived) and making sure that no leaves fell into the pool, when Watanuki had come a-calling (with Doumeki stuck to him like a tumor), and the goalie had promptly adjusted his glasses and quietly suggested that Mioru snap himself out of whatever he was in. That for an entire year, Mioru should live in New York, right smack dab where Kurogane and Fai kept their main lodgings at an Upper East Side penthouse apartment.

Because just _maybe_, Watanuki had said as Doumeki skulked around behind him, if Mioru spent enough time around Kurogane, if he talked about this with Kurogane, maybe Mioru would finally be free of him. _Maybe_ Mioru would finally be able to simply be friends and be okay with that.

It was worth a try.

And plus, Mioru was having his L.A. home renovated anyhow—his pool had broken down. Too many leaves.

Which had brought him to asking Fuuma for a favor: The annoying persistence that Mioru knew he was so good at doing, and applying it to his own elder brother, who was currently vacationing in the country Mioru had been in less than two weeks ago.

Because Mioru knew that Seishiro still had a sore spot where Mioru was concerned. Even if it had been part of a Task over eight years ago, Seishiro more or less probably still replayed the fact in his head that Mioru Aoi had slept with the Maestro's personal, private, password-protected property.

Namely, Subaru Sumeragi.

It was a felony, apparently.

But disregarding that, rather than renting out his own penthouse floor, Mioru had decided to figuratively room with Seishiro and Subaru, in their penthouse fucking building, because as much as Watanuki wasn't all that bad of an emotional consultant, Subaru was really the best of the best.

Even if the price _was_ dealing with the Maestro breathing down his neck, and emanating an aura of blood thirst.

* * *

"He's _what_?" Kurogane slammed a hand down onto the table. He turned his scowl up a few notches, and he felt the irritation move closer to spiral mode at the sight of the unperturbed violinist sitting across from him, calmly stroking that stupidly gianormous rabbit in his lap, like the fucking Godfather or something.

Fai arched an eyebrow, fingers caressing Mokona's left ear. "Subaru called me the other day and said that Mioru's going to live with him and Seishiro for a year."

"_Why?_"

"Because where we have a penthouse, they have the entire building," Fai replied easily, as though Kurogane was just retarded that way.

"No," Kurogane snapped, "it's already established that Sakurazuka's insane. I meant, why is Mioru suddenly deciding to pop up in fucking New York, where we fucking _live_?"

"Maybe he wants a change of scenery."

"He lives in L.A."

"Which, I assure you, Kuro-sama, is very different from New York."

"_Argh_. I know that, _too_." Kurogane collapsed back into his seat, and let his forehead fall on the table. "It's just…" He paused. "I don't know."

Fai watched him for a while. Mokona filled in the silence by emitting his routine series of high-pitched sniffling squeaks, and turned his furry head to look up at Fai significantly, as though Fai was supposed to _do_ something right about now. Preferably in aiding Kurogane with his dilemma-that-wasn't-really-one.

The musician set Mokona onto the floor and stood up, walking around the suite's dining table and sitting at the edge right where Kurogane's head was resting inches away. "Hey," Fai said quietly, prodding the head. "Kuro-kun. Mioru can do whatever he wants. It's not like we own New York. Maybe he has some training program there. You know, interviews and things."

Kurogane lifted his head. "Speaking of crap like that. How come the two brats are still here? Thought they were leaving for Japan soon as the last week of August rolled by."

Fai shrugged indifferently. "Sakura says that they came to the U.S. for a reason. Actually, she said it has something to do with you."

The martial artist squinted. "Huh? Do…with me?"

And then, Fai had to do it. It just had to be done. He grinned benevolently and said, "Hm? Maybe she wants to have a threesome with us, Kuro-puu? Or a foursome, if we throw Syaoran in there."

The violinist swallowed back the laugh as Kurogane's eyes began to twitch, and he could literally watch the blood pumping through Kurogane's brain as he processed the information to come out with just the right way to slowly murder the young blond man sitting in front of him—the man who'd just caused infinite amounts of trauma in the span of two sentences.

But before Kurogane could end Fai's life, Mokona had somehow appeared on the martial artist's head, long ears drooping in just the right angle to obstruct the athlete's view.

"I _hate_ this fucking rabbit!"

Fai sat back and curiously observed the way Kurogane was trying to yank the titanic bunny from his head, and not quite succeeding. At all.

"Then you shouldn't have given it to me, should've you?" the musician said easily, taking Kurogane's hand and pulling him down to his knees. Fai coaxed the rabbit from the martial artist's hair and set it down on the other side of the table, giving it a little pat in the rump to set it off towards its water bowl near Fai's nightstand.

Kurogane folded his arms and groused into his seat. "Fuck yeah. Considering that you spend more time with that thing than with other humans. Y'know, something's _really_ _wrong_ with you, Fluorite."

Fai's eyebrows went up, the rims of his eyes stretching a tiny bit. He grinned, sidling off the table and landing in Kurogane's lap. The martial artist's scowl deepened, but to Fai—perfectly fluent in Kurogane-speak—knew what it meant. The musician brought himself up, knees against the edges of the chair, Kurogane's legs against the insides of his thighs, and he tilted his face down, hair curtaining over both their heads. "Aw," Fai's grin widened. "Someone's looking a bit green."

Kurogane's scowl seemed to reach toward the underworld.

Fai laughed, because despite all the posturing, the athlete's hands were starting to work their way up the back of the musician's shirt. He wrapped his arms around Kurogane's neck, with a curious little smile. "I must admit. Mokona makes a fierce opponent, doesn't he?"

By now, Kurogane's lips and tongue were already running amok on the expanse of skin leading down from Fai's throat to his collarbone. Fai threaded his fingers through the athlete's hair. "Who won?" Kurogane mumbled from beneath the violinist's shirt, lips against the pale chest.

"That's for me to know, and for you to find out," Fai said, one hand snapping open Kurogane's jeans—y'know, since it just _wouldn't do_ if he let the martial artist have the upper hand _all_ the time.

"I hate you," Kurogane muttered, fingers grabbing into Fai's cargo shorts and underwear in one swoop.

Fai grasped the hardening being in Kurogane's pants, and listened to the athlete hiss. "Love you, too, Kuro-sama." He smiled.

* * *

By the time Mioru wrestled himself sleepily and in a dead kind of way through the gates, and from the arrivals section to the departure part of the Barcelona airport, it was a whopping 12:30. And since international flights required a two-hour wait, he was to get himself to the waiting area of the flight departing from Barcelona to New York City where Seishiro and Subaru were already supposed to have been.

But before that could happen, Mioru had to check his baggage out and then recheck it back in, as Fuuma had booked his flight far too quickly, and therefore Mioru hadn't had time to request for his baggage to be on the cargo plane straight to New York, rather than to Barcelona. And after that, Mioru had to eat, because he was fucking starving, and after he ate, he had to brush his teeth in the bathroom, because his mouth tasted like shit after thirteen hours with nothing but alcohol.

When he finally dragged himself to the correct waiting area, and caught sight of Seishiro and Subaru, it was nearing 1:15 (in the fucking morning), and the airport seemed to have emptied out. For good reason, too, as the later it got, the colder it also grew. Because the air conditioning was probably stupid that way.

Seishiro was sitting with leg bent and propped on the other, ankle resting on his knee just like a CEO, with Subaru in the seat next to him, the trumpeter fast asleep with an entire side of his body fitted right up against the conductor's. The Maestro's arm shifted slightly around Subaru's body as he looked up at Mioru. The athlete took a seat at Seishiro's remaining side, and leaned his backpack carry-on beside the messenger bag resting at Subaru's feet.

"Hey," Mioru said after about two minutes of silence.

"Mm?" Seishiro's eyes slid toward him.

"Where'll I be sleeping?"

"In your assigned airplane seat."

If he hadn't been as jet lagged as he was, Mioru would've probably stomped on the Maestro's foot. "I meant in your house. Where'm I going to sleep?"

"There'll be a room. That sort of thing's not a big deal. We've got lots of space." Seishiro smiled with a raised eyebrow. "You'll probably have your own bathroom, too. Well. Unless you want to share?"

Mioru snorted. "You're just saying that to bait me into getting my ass killed because I saw Subaru naked or something."

"But you _have_ seen him naked," Seishiro said quietly, the smile still very there, but not quite in his eyes any more.

The athlete stared into his lap, at his hands. He didn't know what to say. And what little he did think he wanted to say had nothing to do with what Seishiro just said. Well. Kind of. It wasn't anything pertaining to the nakedness, Subaru or otherwise. "I heard about that. Y'know, those years ago, at the end of those twins' senior years. After…after Syaoran's brother OD-ed. But…why?"

Seishiro's eyes lidded over, and his head leaned to the side, his cheek resting against the crown of Subaru's head, the soft hair licking at the Maestro's skin. "What do you mean?"

Mioru watched the way Seishiro's knuckles could be seen trembling just that atomic, tiny bit—almost unnoticeable—as his arm and hand wrapped around the other side of Subaru's head, fingers stroking at the hair right above the shell of the trumpeter's ear. "When…well…I saw the scars, y'know? Or at least, just that one—the one that goes diagonal from his shoulder."

"Right shoulder to left waist?" Seishiro said softly in eerie accuracy.

"Yeah." Mioru looked at his knees, because he didn't think that he could talk about this while looking at the Maestro—at the humanized demon, demonized human. "I just wondered…he talked to me about them when I asked…and…it was like he didn't even care—like he didn't mind. So I just…wondered…well, not really, but…it's like…why would you _do_ that?"

Seishiro glanced to him, lifting his head from Subaru's.

"I know that I'm not a saint either," Mioru said quietly. "But…I don't know. You don't have to answer. 'S none of my fucking business. But y'should've seen him that time—you really should've. It was the first time I wanted to cry like a little fucking girl."

When Mioru looked up—once he'd gathered enough fucking courage, Seishiro's eyes had somewhat lessened in their intensity. Softer, sort of. The conductor half-grinned and gestured with his head to the sleeping young man in his arms, "It's a bit of a gift, Subaru has. Isn't it?"

"Great fucking gift," Mioru said, snorting. He leaned forward slightly, stealing a glance at the serenity of Subaru's expression—beautifully vulnerable, and because of that, stronger than both Seishiro and Mioru himself would ever be. Just like all those years ago.

Seishiro shifted a little, rolling his shoulder beneath Subaru's head. In turn, the trumpeter sighed softly, instinctively adjusting to the change of position. "So. Since my dear brother didn't care to tell me, why are you suddenly deciding to stay a year in New York? I hear the weather's much better in Los Angeles. The Japanese food is better, too."

"The winters are closer to Japan's weather in NY," Mioru said. He shrugged. "I can deal with all sorts of food. And…my pool broke down—the leaves clogged up the system or some shit like that. So I decided to get everything renovated while I'm at it. Break in a few rooms."

They looked at each other in silence after that. The Maestro inhaled deeply and raised an eyebrow. "What's the real reason?"

Mioru moved his eyes away, back to his hands. He fiddled with his team wristband. "Kurogane."

"I surmised as much. But, I never pegged you for the kind to try to win them over this late. And you don't have the air of someone who's planning, too. So…tell me, what _are_ you planning?" Seishiro smiled enigmatically.

"Heh." Mioru shook his head, a sad grin on his face. "I don't really have a plan. It's not so much a plan, see…I'm…I'm sort of hoping that if I'm around him enough…if I can see him and talk with him…see him with Fai…maybe I can…well, y'know, stop…yeah. Y'know."

"Loving him?" Seishiro murmured, not really looking at Mioru anymore.

"Yeah."

"Then why stay with us? Why not just rent something out?"

Mioru gave another snort—half-hearted, and in his ears, it sounded sort of pathetic. What he really felt like doing at the moment, jet lagged and fucked up, was to curl up into a ball and sob for a while. "I don't think I could handle going home to an empty house for an entire year. Kurogane's bad enough. I just…I don't know. I know it sounds fucking sad that I can't just be happy by myself…but…I don't know. It's like…if I get rid of him inside me…maybe."

He rubbed his hair back—it didn't really do anything, considering his hair was regulation shorn, but the action felt like something concrete he could grasp. "Sometimes…it's bad. Sometimes I don't even think of him. But when it's bad…it's bad. Sometimes when it's so bad I can still feel him—literally fell him inside of me—I wonder…if I hadn't been such a stupid, teenaged prick…would he have still been here? Instead of with Fai? Or would he have gone anyway?"

Seishiro's eyes were staring relentlessly at him—inexplicably at him. "Why couldn't I've just stayed with Subaru all this time? Why did I have to fuck things up first? Why did he have to let me fuck it up, instead of telling me that I'd regret it?"

Mioru blinked.

"Things happen. And things happened to us—fucked us up—because if it hadn't…I think I might still be sleeping in a different bed every night," Seishiro said quietly with a smile. "With a different person. Probably get positive and contract AIDS or something, along the way. There's never a guarantee, with what I used to do. If I hadn't fucked Subaru up that badly…his leaving wouldn't have fucked me up into being a bastard the _right_ way."

"I hate him," Mioru said in a small voice.

The conductor waited for it.

Mioru leaned forward and put his face in his hands. "I hate him for making me love him so fucking much."

Seishiro grinned. "I know the feeling."

* * *

Subaru rustled in his seat, blackness against his eyes. He wanted to open his eyes. His eyes didn't want to open. Last he recalled, they'd settled into waiting for Mioru at the gate, and he'd drifted off on Seishiro's shoulder.

He felt movement, his pillow shifting against his cheek. Something hard grazed his ear, and cloth roughed against his temple. Subaru yanked one eye open as wide as he could. It didn't make much difference. There was still lots of blackness. And so he blinked awake by degrees, rolling his neck around, and yawning—stretching his body as much as he could in his seat, and tossing his bangs out of his eyes.

By now, his eyes had oriented themselves to the darkness—he could see Mioru on his left, sleeping quietly against the window, and Seishiro on his right. Or rather, more accurately, he felt Seishiro's body leaning against his right side—the Maestro's head was still dozing softly atop Subaru's.

"Mm," Subaru lifted his head slowly, nudging the edge of Seishiro's jaw. "Seishiro…time's it? D'you know?"

Seishiro made a throaty sound and opened his eyes—instantly alert. He glanced down at Subaru. "We're probably almost there. You slept through both the late night meals they handed out. And all the drinks. Are you hungry or…?"

Subaru murmured, "No. 'm fine." He leaned his head on Seishiro's shoulder again. "How'd Mioru seem?"

"Angsty."

"Are you being mean?"

"A little."

"Oh."

"Maybe I'm just jealous. I carried you all the way through the boarding process, and all you can ask about is Mioru?" Seishiro teased.

"Oh," Subaru said again blankly. He looked up at the conductor. "Thank you, then."

Seishiro returned the gaze, promptly wounded.

Subaru raised his eyebrows and blinked. Understood. Reached up and kissed the Maestro's lips. Seishiro smiled. "You're welcome."

The trumpeter waited for two minutes—during which Seishiro busied himself with petting Subaru's hair and threading their fingers together and kissing the trumpeter's knuckles and tonguing Subaru's ears and kissing the trumpeter's hair. Then he asked again, "How'd Mioru seem, really?"

"He basically decided to come with us so he can fulfill his ever-amazingly-never-disappearing-wish of stomping Kurogane You-ou out of the deepest recesses of his heart—since that's gone so well for the past decade."

"Oh." Subaru turned his eyes away from Seishiro and looked ahead. He slid his eyes to Mioru, sleeping against the window, eyes almost determinedly shut, as though he was forcing himself into unconsciousness. It was a tired expression. And one that was sort of familiar to Subaru.

He'd seen it staring back at him from a mirror—from a windowpane—he'd seen it reflected back at him too many times to count in years past. He wished he could tell Mioru when the athlete woke up that stopping loving Kurogane once and for all would be easy—that it would work, that it would be _possible_.

But Subaru wasn't quite sure if that would be true.

After all, he'd tried the same thing once. Twice. Thrice. Too many times without any successful ends.

The trumpeter closed his eyes and sighed breathily when he felt lips ghost up the column of his throat. Large hands cupped his face and turned it for a kiss.

The only difference was that Mioru had no other choice—he had to stop loving or else.

* * *

"_They say summer love is fleeting. But sometimes what starts as a fling, can lead to the real thing. __A simple trip to the beach can be all it takes to clear our heads and open our heads, and write a new ending to an old story. __There are those who got burned by the heat. They just want to forget and start over. While there are others who want each moment to last forever. __But everyone can agree on one thing—tans fade, highlights go dark, and we all get sick of getting sand in our shoes. But summer is the beginning of a new season, so we find ourselves looking to the future. _

_You ain't seen nothin' yet. XOXO…__Gossip__ Girl."_

_--Gossip Girl from "Summer, Kind of Wonderful"_

* * *

_A/N: I swear I'm going to finish Compelled. I _swear_ it. I just need lots and lots of time to do it, because the place where I'm at is really fragile. It's the crucial steering point, and I have to do some climax stalling to do it right. So until then, I'll just go on with Unveiled, since there isn't much to be spoiled even if Compelled isn't finished yet. After all, if this was in chronological order, people should be more worried about references to Secrets, than anything else. I also don't know why my Unveiled chapters keep turning out so long. _

_Oh, you'll also be getting a lot more Impulse chapters, but now I've actually got a good idea of how I'm going to close that miscellaneous sort of thing. And on a randomer note, I've recently discovered the awesomeness of J-Pop and K-Pop. Mainly, NewS and Super Junior. But mostly just NewS. It's cracktastic. And great muse. So you have them to thank for any coming chapters. I highly recommend you listen to them. It's great fanservice, too, if you watch their vlog-like DVD segments. _

_Tegoshi Yuya is the ultimate uke. I'm just saying._

_Review, because I desperately need one. Or two. Or lots. _

_(And what about the latest TRC/xxxholic chapters, huh? Piece of work, those were.)_


	5. Ready, Set

Chapter Three: Ready, Set

They arrived in New York sometime before the sun rose, and by 'sometime', Mioru meant far too early than was acceptable. Seishiro was more or less carrying Subaru through baggage checkout and waiting for their driver to pick them up. Meaning that the Maestro forced Mioru to push their luggage carts, completely ignoring Mioru's insistency on how mid-twenties was a ridiculous age to be unable to stay awake through past midnight, and Subaru needed to push his own damn luggage.

Seishiro stuck his foot in front of the luggage cart and Mioru tripped.

They were made to linger in the sweltering Manhattan heat for about forty-five minutes (which Subaru slept through completely), until the chauffeur finally showed up, and Mioru suspected that the whirs and gears in Seishiro's mind were more than definitely deciding to dock the poor driver's pay.

Because of the morning commute, the trip to the penthouse took another hour, during which Subaru _did _wake up, face beaded in sweat, hair stuck to his forehead, and breath coming out in little puffs that Mioru was sure gave Seishiro an erection, since there was no other viable reason for the Maestro to suddenly cross his legs and turn away from the trumpeter.

Mioru didn't trust his sex-deprived self, so he settled for turning away to _his_ other side, because he was sure that if he got an accidental erection from watching Subaru breathe and sweat like that in close proximity, then Seishiro would probably stab a telephone cable through his gut.

The sun's rays were barely touching the horizon when they arrived at the office-like penthouse building—an entire miniature skyscraper inhabited by only two people. Now three.

Probably to punish him, Seishiro told the driver to carry the luggage up to the tenth floor, before wrapping one arm around Subaru's waist, and jerking his head toward Mioru to follow.

They rode the elevator up to the tenth floor (Seishiro had told the driver to take the stairs), and the entire set up was precisely like the sleek black outside. Modern and dark with leather furniture and somewhat glossy. Very Seishiro-like.

The conductor turned to Mioru as Subaru deposited himself in a collapse onto the oversized ottoman near the sound system. "You're room is down the hall, and go straight until you see a left turn. I had the third one on the right side prepared, but if you want to change, you'll do it yourself. I don't like people, so I only have the maids twice a week."

Mioru blinked. "You know that I need a key, right?"

"Our rooms have locks."

"I meant for the building."

Seishiro raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

Mioru squinted. "Because I'm not a recluse…? My team changes location every off-season, remember? We're training at a new field here in New York. I need to get in and out."

"…Why can't you just wait for me or Subaru?"

Subaru sighed something like a moan, and Mioru saw the cloth of Seishiro's pants twitch. "He'll _need_ a key, Seishiro. And…could you turn the AC up? Why's it so _hot_?"

"Go take a shower," Mioru said without thinking. He slid his eyes discreetly toward Seishiro—to make sure he wasn't about to be murdered, or anything, y'know. Seishiro was peaceably continuing to watch Subaru writhe himself onto his feet wearily. "Er. Yeah."

Subaru yawned and wrinkled his nose, pushing his limp bangs from his forehead. "I guess. That's a good idea." He brushed past between Seishiro and Mioru, and then stopped. Seemingly rethinking something. He turned back around and blinked those wide eyes at Seishiro. "Do you want to come? It conserves water."

"Go green," Seishiro murmured, while simultaneously—and impressively—grabbing Subaru's collar, and whisking them off through a door to the side that Mioru had not noticed until just that moment.

The athlete stared at the door.

Seconds later, Mioru found out that the doors were poorly soundproofed, if soundproofed at all.

Seconds after that, Mioru decided to go out for a walk (and call once he got back due to his lack of a key), until that haplessly poor chauffeur had managed to bring their luggage up ten flight of stairs single handedly—which, considering the man's age, might take until tomorrow, or at least until he had a heart attack and his family sued Seishiro.

The Upper East Side was clean. Orderly and fast-paced and brimming just by the appearance with scandal. It was nothing like their home in Japan, no matter how elite that area had been, the Upper East Side of Manhattan was that times a thousand times more, because this was _America_.

There were dozens upon dozens of buildings just like Seishiro and Subaru's scraping the sky, towering over Mioru. The hotness was stifling, and the air near the cars cruising by shook with heat waves; but it wasn't unbearable—if given time, it could easily be accustomed to, Mioru thought. And if the weather kept up like this, give or take a few degrees, it'd be perfect weather for training. The air was relatively clean, too. No allergies thus far.

When Mioru had rounded out the streets and returned to the penthouse doors, there was a young man, more or less Mioru's own age, standing there, and staring up at the height of the building. The stare was aimless, but the young man looked thoughtful, brow furrowed and eyes focused.

The young man, all suited up, was the kind of brilliant in appearance that made you think of dashing, mysterious criminals that hurt you and loved you all at once, but you could never hate them anyhow—dark blond hair, stick straight to his shoulders and over his eyes; eyes like the devil's silver; and, a face like a feline predator.

He was also much, much taller than Mioru—which didn't happen too often. Mioru wasn't huge, but he wasn't short, either. Only people like Fuuma and Kurogane surpassed him by the amount that this young man did.

"Um, hi," Mioru said warily in accented English.

"Good morning," the man replied in perfect Japanese.

"Oh." Mioru switched. "Okay. Er…what are you doing? It's like, fucking six in the morning…and it's a hundred degrees. We'll probably all burn when the sun comes up." He sidestepped around the man to ring the doorbell, and waited.

The man shrugged. "I'm doing what you're doing. Standing at the door because I need to get inside."

They turned. The door opened. Seishiro stood, shirtless, his pants held up with one hand, and his hair standing on end. He shielded his eyes from the sun with his remaining hand and raised an eyebrow at Mioru and the young man. "You can come in," he nodded at the athlete. "But you," the conductor blinked. "What do you _want_, Senryuu? I just finished important business."

"I'm sure," Senryuu said with raised eyebrows. "But you said you would be home and available by this time today—and it's this time today, in case you were to busy to notice."

Seishiro looked back lazily. "I was too busy to notice."

"I have things to discuss."

"I have things to fuck."

Mioru sidled past Seishiro and into the air-conditioned and shaded haven of the penthouse's foyer.

"That's rude, you know," Senryuu persisted, catching the edge of the door with his foot and making it through just before Seishiro could lock him out. Seishiro continued walking without once looking back—through the arch and into the living room that Mioru had nearly been forced to witness the Maestro and his trumpeter have sex in.

"What is?" Seishiro said, dropping onto the sofa and looking up at Senryuu with resigned cheer.

"Calling Subaru a 'thing'." Senryuu put his hands in his pockets.

Mioru tried to make himself as invisible as it was possible to make oneself, when one was one of a mere three people in a particularly large space with particularly not that much furniture. He grabbed the door that, if he remembered in the fifty-six seconds he had spent in this penthouse before being ejected straight away, should be the bathroom and prepared to barricade himself in it—possibly jerk off to kill time.

He'd prepared to catch himself on the sink that should've behind him had the room really been a bathroom. Which, of course, it wasn't, because life just likes to fuck with Mioru in that way. And since there was no sink to catch himself on, he ended up falling onto the wooden floor on his butt.

That kind of hurt.

Mioru blinked, willing his eyes to adjust in the darkness—it seemed that this room did have windows, even though the curtains were thick and drawn over them, some sunlight strategically sifted through.

Rustling. "Mm…" The shadows on the sizeable bulk at the other end of the room shifted. "Seishiro…? 'S that you?"

Life hated Mioru. Like, _loathed_ him.

"Um…"

"Oh." Padding. The shadows split—the larger, rectangular shadow remaining situated, and the smaller shadow moving lithely to the windows, parting the curtains just a fraction of an inch, only enough so that a line of sunlight fell on the room. But enough light so that Mioru could make out Subaru's faint, very _naked_, outline. "That's better, right?"

"Yeah. All right." Mioru felt a vein in his forehead twitch. "So, so…who's the guy?"

"What guy?" Subaru squatted in front of him, and Mioru began his well-versed mental mantra of _Don't look down_'s. The musician placed his elbows on his knees and tilted his head.

Mioru drag himself back a bit. "Y'know. Well, you probably don't. But…er…that guy. Sen…sen…Senryuu? Yeah. He's all done up in a suit like the weather isn't burning hell, and he's talking with Seishiro. And Seishiro doesn't like him. Not that Seishiro doesn't not like lots of people, but yeah."

Subaru blinked and tilted his head at a further angle. "Senryuu is Seishiro's associate. Seishiro took over the Sakurazuka business after his parents retired, 'member? Senryuu has the U.S. branch in Maryland."

Mioru squinted.

Subaru clapped his hands. "Right, then." He stood up and pulled the curtains apart the rest of the way, illuminating the room. The trumpeter also flicked on the air conditioning down to 55 degrees. He glanced at Mioru. "That's not too cold for you, is it? I get hot really easily."

Mioru had already kind of noticed. In the way that he really hadn't wanted to. So he watched as Subaru picked up the clothes scattered over the room—boxer briefs hanging from the lamp shade and all—and started pulling on the pieces as he found them, first his underwear and so on. The musician resumed the explanation as he dressed. "Senryuu doesn't really like our world much, so he just declines out of all the business dinners and things. He knows how it works and all—he just says that he's really not good at being in it, and it might mess things up for Seishiro, so," and then Subaru shrugged.

"He's nice, then?"

Subaru nodded once, turning back to Mioru as he zipped his cargo shorts. "He is. He's sad a lot, though, but he talks to me."

Mioru frowned. "Isn't that…kind of freaky?"

"No. He just talks." Subaru laughed. "I don't think he really likes Seishiro much either." The musician tugged at the hem of his shirt until it lay right against his waistband.

It had to be said. "A lot of people don't like Seishiro that much." Mioru looked at Subaru doubtfully. "Or at all."

Subaru wrinkled his nose and smiled. "Right?" He crossed over to the doorway. "C'mon. Let's go. You should meet him. He's nice. And I need to tell Seishiro to turn the AC up more. It's sweltering."

Mioru dumbly followed Subaru through the doorway and into the prickling electricity that filled the air of the main room—featuring a glaring contest that involved Seishiro and Senryuu smiling at each other pleasantly from opposing sides of the granite island. Senryuu had a handheld planner out between them, and even from where Mioru stood, the planner's screen looked booked from sunrise to sundown.

"Good morning, Senryuu," Subaru said, walking around Seishiro and opening the refrigerator. "We just got back."

Senryuu shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "How was Spain?"

"It was all right. Not as hot as New York." Subaru let Seishiro stroke his waist absently as the trumpeter trailed back to Mioru's side. "Are you here for some more files that Seishiro hasn't signed and returned yet?"

"No. I withheld the plane tickets before you left for the summer until he finished everything. I'm actually here to discuss how you're hosting the Japanese national soccer team's training for the next season in one of your facilities," Senryuu said, his eyes not even flickering to Mioru.

Seishiro blinked once slowly, bored. He blinked another time. And another. And another. "The relevance of this is?"

"You haven't finished signing the forms that this exchange requires."

Seishiro stared, smiling condescendingly at Senryuu. Senryuu stared, unsmiling blankly at Seishiro.

"You know," Subaru said quietly. "There's no point in bringing Mioru all the way here, and volunteering to host his team in one of your facilities for off-season training if you aren't going to finish off the forms that lets it happen. Legally."

Mioru blinked a bit. "You're hosting my team? Like…here? In this fucking gianormous penthouse?"

"They'll use the fields," Seishiro said coolly. "Outside. I had them prepared with the goals and all. But they'll find their own roofs to sleep under. I'm already hosting one invalid."

Someday soon, Mioru really believed that Seishiro would end up shot and stuck hastily headfirst into a garbage can. And no one except Subaru would care. Which was probably _the_ only reason why Seishiro _wasn't_ already shot and headfirst in a garbage can.

In the background of Seishiro and Senryuu's teardown and Subaru discreetly eating through his weight in sunflower crackers, Mioru tried to get a better gauge of Senryuu. He swore he'd seen him before somewhere at sometime. Perhaps only a fleeting glance, but Senryuu looked too familiar for Mioru not to have seen him before. People who looked like Senryuu weren't common.

Senryuu really was the first new face Mioru had seen in a long, long, long time that was so nice to look at that Mioru couldn't bear to look away. The features were captivating in almost a haunting way—the kind of features where you sometimes wanted to look away, but couldn't. They looked, in some regard, out of place in such bright sunlight. They were the kind of features that were so much more easily imagined bathing in moonlight, shadowed by the walls of a dark alleyway.

And furthermore, no matter how hot Senryuu might have looked in a suit, for some reason that Mioru couldn't place, it just looked really, really off—like he wasn't meant to wear a suit. It wasn't that Senryuu didn't look good—it was really weird, because Mioru couldn't figure out why someone who looked so good in probably everything he wore (and most likely when he wore nothing at all) looked so wrong wearing it.

If anything, Mioru's pointless mental rambles made the time that he and Subaru were waiting out Seishiro and Senryuu's argument-disguised-as-a-pleasant-business-discussion seem to fly by, if not at least bearable.

The argument-disguised-as-a-pleasant-business-discussion was wrapped up just before Mioru's mind started wandering toward whether he should try to jack off before or after Seishiro and Subaru went at it again tonight (which they undoubtedly would), and it was wrapped up with Senryuu shoving the briefcase into Seishiro's arms, and with the Maestro cheerily throwing the briefcase into the sink behind him.

"Bye, Senryuu," Subaru said amiably from the couch, waving a vague hand as he rounded off the super-sized tin of sunflower crackers. "It was nice to see you."

"You, too," Senryuu said politely, briskly striding past Mioru—fast enough so that the soccer player could steal a whiff of the air that brushed afterward, air that smelled like shampoo and gymnastic mats. Which, in Mioru's mind, was not all that bad, no matter how sort of kinky it could end up being.

"You'll be coming by tomorrow, then?" Seishiro called out, just before Senryuu reached the doorway to the foyer.

The only response the conductor received was a resounding door-slam.

* * *

"_Welcome back Upper East Siders. After a long hot summer away, I see it didn't take you long to dirty up the clean slates I gave you. My inbox is overflowing, so let's get to the good stuff, shall we?"_

_--Gossip Girl from "Reversals of Fortune"_

* * *

_A/N: OMG LOOK IT'S AN UPDATE AND IT'S NOT EVEN THE WEEKEND. Again, lately, I just feel that all my chapters are really crappy and suckish. I don't know why. Plus, I have all these ideas for Compelled, and no way to write them because I keep pulling up blanks, but I kind of have some ideas. Fear not, I know I've said this ten-thousand times, but I SWEAR that I'll finish them. No guarantees for Underworld, anymore, though. But anything in the Secrets' series is a definite future-completion. And Watch This Space (although I know no one cares) also has a definite completion stamp on it._

_And like I said, Mioru and Senryuu are going to get a ton of camera time in Unveiled, so if you're going to read, you're going to have to accept that Mioru and Senryuu aren't as big bastards as you thought they were. In fact, for having, like, the crappiest parents EVAR, they turned out pretty damn well.  
_


	6. Reunited

Chapter Four: Reunited

"I'm not going," Kurogane said, folding his arms and continuing to resolutely stand a safe five meters from the door. He set his jaw and set his feet and he was _not going to move one single centimeter_ from this very spot because he refused to see Mioru.

Fai's tongue darted out and curled against the corner of his mouth thoughtfully in a gesture that set off the warning alerts within Kurogane. The violinist stood five meters from Kurogane at the door, holding it open with the heel of his shoe. His own pale arms were at his sides, relaxed hands in his pockets. "You are."

"I'm not." The martial artist sat down on the sofa behind him, as though he was _absolutely not going_, like, really, really, really not going. "You can see the fuckwad, but I sure the hell am not."

Fai raised his eyebrows. "Mioru is not a fuckwad, and I _know _you want to see him."

"'M gonna hit the gym with Syaoran."

"Syaoran will be starting off-season training—he's on the same team as Mioru." Fai shook his hair out of his eyes. "He will _already_ be hitting the gym. With his _team_."

Kurogane set his jaw tighter, unmoving.

Fai leaned back against the doorway. Kurogane had never been one to bother hiding what he felt, which meant that right now, as the martial artist stubbornly faced Fai and refusing to see Mioru, it could not be more than obvious that Kurogane was nervous as fuck to see Mioru—but still wanted to see Mioru, all the same.

Kurogane hadn't seen Mioru in at least a year—since Mioru had graduated. Fai wasn't quite sure what had happened and how, but something along the lines of Mioru disappearing to New York the minute his hand touched the diploma. And from there, whenever Mioru had frequented Japan—which was often—he'd only ever touch the prefectures farthest from Tokyo.

And when Fai and Kurogane had moved to New York, Mioru fled to the other end of the country. It wasn't all that difficult to infer from his migration patterns that Mioru was avoiding Kurogane. And it wasn't all that difficult to infer from Kurogane's erratic bowl-and-glass-and-silverware-knocking-off-the-table-fits that even though a part of Kurogane didn't mind that he no longer had to face Mioru, _most_ of Kurogane wondered what the hell he did wrong, and what the hell he'd have to make right to get Mioru back.

Fai wasn't about to clue Kurogane in, because for one thing, he himself wasn't quite sure how to explain to Kurogane that he'd have to hurt Mioru to help him—and how the only way to get Mioru back as a friend was to somehow get Mioru to stop loving Kurogane.

Which was harder than it looked.

Fai would know.

* * *

"Is it starting?"

"It already started."

Doumeki rested his shoulder against the doorframe, eyes surveying the young man at the desk. "Are we leaving now, then?"

"It takes a day to get there, doesn't it?" Watanuki said, untwining his fingers and pushing himself up. He picked up his glasses and balanced them precariously in one hand, expression lightly thoughtful. "It wouldn't be good if the goalie was late for off-season training."

Doumeki just continued to stand by as Watanuki slipped on the spectacles and picked up the letter that had been dusting over on the desk—at the exact spot on the corner—for weeks. The goalie looked over the contents with half-lidded eyes, with almost detached disinterest. "Are you going to win?"

Watanuki smiled tiredly. "Of course I am."

"Are you going to use the Fuuka thing?"

"Maybe."

"He knows about the Fuuka thing, too. What if he used it before you?"

Watanuki covered the distance between Doumeki and himself and tilted his head back. He took Doumeki's arms and placed them on his waist, and he smiled again when he felt the fingers hook into the belt loops of his jeans. "He doesn't know that I know," the goalie said. "Plus, I know something about the Fuuka thing that he doesn't."

"What's there to not know? Kurohyou and Rondart both needed Fuuka dead for different reasons, so Rondart killed Fuuka."

Watanuki put his arms around Doumeki's neck. "So? Maybe someone else wanted Fuuka dead, too. Or maybe, someone wanted to have something to use against Rondart and Kurohyou."

* * *

The indoor field precisely mimicked a real soccer field excluding, of course, the uncontrollable weather and the real grass. Everything else, however, didn't differ. To make things even more convenient, there was also the weight room and the locker room located on the same floor of the penthouse—the second level.

Mioru's teammates and coach wouldn't be showing up for at least another few days or so—this following week would be when everyone was scheduled to begin showing up; by Saturday, all the members should be in New York, since the team's flights had been booked starting tomorrow—tomorrow being Monday.

He had taken it upon himself to come down—shirtless with shorts—to the floor Seishiro had said was where the training would take place and gauge the grounds before his teammates started arriving. It'd be no different—no better and no worse—than training in the stadium and weight rooms they usually would use back in Japan. Most of them had been to the U.S. for one thing or another, and the hotels and flights were all paid for and so on.

Mioru fell onto his back and sighed, wrinkling his nose in reaction to the itchy false grass against his bare skin. He stared up at the fluorescent lights, and closed his eyes. He still didn't even really know what he was doing here. Seishiro obviously wished dearly that Mioru was never anywhere within a ten mile radius of the Maestro himself and the Maestro's personal property—a.k.a., Subaru.

There was no point in being here to get rid of his feelings for Kurogane if Kurogane was going to avoid him. Which, wasn't all that surprising, seeing as Mioru had avoided Kurogane blatantly in the past few years.

So really, Mioru was just here killing some more time—much like he'd been doing for the past four years. And probably much like he'd continue to do for the rest of his life. After all, his parents no longer expected anything more of him than the usual paycheck percentages—and they no longer cared to see him other than family publicity stunts and TV appearances. And even though the Circus didn't want to kill him anymore, he had never really been part of them. He'd just been someone that'd interfered with their lives a little too much.

The only thing he really thought he was good for was soccer. And really, the only thing he felt like he was _allowed_ to care about was soccer. No matter how much everything else was fading away from the edges of his fingertips—no matter how much was falling from his hands, his _feet_ would never lose reach of the ball.

He gave another sigh, and opened his eyes.

And then skittered backward like a spider.

Hovering over Mioru when the athlete opened his eyes was Senryuu's silver gaze. And Senryuu's blank, slightly surprised expression at Mioru's kind-of-freaked-out expression. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"What the fuck?" Mioru sat up slowly, hand over his heart. "Dude, that scared me shitless."

"Should I give you some time to replenish your shit, then?" Senryuu raised both eyebrows. And grinned.

Mioru frowned and skittered back a little bit more. "I've got tons of shit, thanks. What the fuck are you doing here anyway? You should've, like, made more noise coming in—what if you saw me sleeping and molested me or something?"

"I made plenty of noise, actually," Senryuu said. "I had to lug that in here and you didn't even twitch, so I assumed you were napping and I went to wake you up." He pointed his finger to something at the door. "Equipment like that doesn't come in quietly."

Mioru could just make out—from the distance—that "equipment" meant four large metal cages filled with soccer balls. If he squinted enough, he'd guess that there were wheels attached to move those cages. "Oh. I wasn't sleeping."

"Just thinking, then?" Senryuu stood up and dusted off his suit.

"I s'pose." Mioru looked the man up and down. "Aren't you hot in that? I mean, there's the AC, but even the conductor bastard doesn't wear a suit all the time."

Senryuu shrugged, hands moving into his pockets. "I'm just here because Seishiro made me. I'll be going back to the office soon."

Mioru pulled himself slowly to his feet, eyes never leaving the young man. Senryuu really was quite good-looking—very good-looking. Immensely, extremely, superbly good-looking. "Do you come by here a lot? Like, does Seishiro make you do stuff for him a lot? Because Subaru seems to really know you."

The silver eyes caught Mioru and touched him, focusing. Senryuu tipped his head slightly. "Kind of. It's hard to get Seishiro to come to the office, so I often just come here instead—when it's just documents I need signed or looked at and things like that. There's no point in going through the hell that needs go be gone through to get him to drag himself to the office." Senryuu rolled his eyes, still with that half-grin. "Especially since I most times end up begging Subaru to get him to cave, and Subaru has to end up imprisoned for marathon sex."

"They go at it _every_ night," Mioru said, eyes widening emphatically. "Seriously, you can hear them through the fucking walls—I got three hours of sleep last night. Y'know, with the jet lag and all, too, but _really_."

Senryuu looked kind of amused. "Did you get three hours of sleep because it disgusted you so much, or because you were too horny?"

Mioru opened his mouth. Closed it. Stuck his tongue out at Senryuu in a way a twenty-four-year-old young man shouldn't be doing for shame and just good common sense. Which Mioru knew he greatly lacked. "Shut up. Just shut it."

Senryuu laughed a little bit, sort of under his breath—low and at the back of his throat—in a way that made Mioru smile sheepishly. Maybe, if by some miracle, Senryuu was gay—or bi—Mioru could get some honest-to-goodness flirting done for the first time in two years.

"Well," Senryuu smiled quietly. "Subaru really loves him, yeah?"

Mioru blinked. "Erm, well, I'm sure Seishiro really loves Subaru, too…? I don't get why you're randomly saying this, but…okay…?"

"No, I mean," Senryuu paused thoughtfully. "Let's just say that it's pretty easy for bastards to fall in love. It's not that easy, though, to love a bastard back. So Subaru has to really love Seishiro, see?"

Mioru blinked again. He really didn't get this—honest. "I still don't get it—not really. Or wait, I get what you're saying, I just don't get why we're talking about them. It's kind of weird."

Senryuu shrugged. "_I'm_ kind of weird." He gave this odd little smile that made Mioru think, strangely enough, of Subaru's face all those years ago when the trumpeter's heart and body were still being mutilated by Seishiro. "So I guess I should go now."

"But you're the good kind of weird." It sort of came out of Mioru in one breath—all attached and in Mioru's opinion, it made Mioru seem sort of retarded. "I mean…like…you're not just going because you say you're weird, right? If you need to go 'cause of Seishiro and stuff…erm…I mean…" Fantastic. Either this guy was just too straight for Mioru, or Mioru's flirting techniques had to be brushed up upon. "Um…I guess I'll see you later then," he finally finished in a small voice.

_Wow. That sounded ten different kinds of epically stupid, Aoi. Now he thinks you're a spaced-out druggie _and_ unable to retain intelligent conversation._

But Senryuu just put his hands in his pockets and laughed. "That was almost believable." Mioru opened his mouth, scowling. "Easy," Senryuu continued, "I'm just going back to the office—Seishiro told me to get you. Apparently, Subaru's having some people over and you have to be there, too."

The pit of Mioru's stomach fell and landed some place near his ankles. "Do you know who?"

Senryuu shook his head.

"Oh. All right, then." Mioru dusted his hands off a bit on the back of his shorts and mussed with the roots of his hair—he'd showered just before he came here. "Um, if you tell me where they are, I think I can find them myself. You shouldn't be late back to work or something." He started to walk.

Senryuu fell into step with him. "They should be in the main room by now—the living room. I heard their voices as they came up. The parking garage is through the other side, so I can walk you at least to the elevator."

Mioru glanced up and saw that Senryuu was staring straight ahead, silver eyes straying nowhere near Mioru's own gaze. And while they were in the elevator, Mioru kept his eyes moving to and from Senryuu's face—truly, for some reason, Mioru swore he'd seen this man before. Somewhere, sometime, perhaps just for seconds only, but Mioru seriously, honestly, fucking really thought that he'd already seen Senryuu. It was familiar enough to stir perfectly developed feelings of déjà vu. And Mioru was usually right about these kinds of things.

Er. Usually.

* * *

"I don't want to be here," Kurogane muttered from the side of his mouth. He slouched just a little bit lower in his seat and glared at the violinist sitting beside him. Fai looked unperturbed, as always, and simply slid a few inches farther from the martial artist—as if unwilling to catch the irritated air molecules wafting from Kurogane.

"Well, you are," Fai said simply. "So deal with it."

Subaru blinked up at both of them from his seat on a throw pillow on the ground. Even though with guests, the trumpeter had come straight from the bedroom, wearing one of Seishiro's collared-office shirts. And not much else. It probably also didn't help that only the bottom three buttons were buttoned. Or that Subaru sat Indian style. Or that the shirt was white-bordering-on-kind-of-translucent. "Are you guys thirsty? We brought some stuff back from Spain."

"Nah, we're fine," Fai smiled. He leaned down, elbows resting on his knees to talk to Subaru. "So, where's the Maestro?"

"He's got work today," Subaru replied. "He just told me to make sure that Kurogane doesn't bring down the _entire_ building."

Kurogane repeated, "I don't want to be here."

Fai ignored him. "Is Mioru even awake?"

"He'll be up in a few—don't worry." Subaru went up on his knees, folded his arms on the table, and then rested his chin on them. "I got Seishiro's assistant to get him. I think he was checking out the training floor. He was up way earlier than me."

Kurogane, at this point, muttered something about bunnies and thin walls and lack of sleep.

"You know, Kuro-tan," Fai said solemnly, "if you want to be heard, you should really start to annunciate your words more properly—otherwise, you'll just continue to just be a blip on everyone's radar; a fly on the windshields of our lives."

"Can we go home now?" the martial artist said. "Please?"

Subaru smiled to himself. Sometimes, it was just too much fun to watch these two. Especially considering that no one quite could handle KUrogane like Fai did. "Mioru wants to see you," he said to Kurogane. "You want to see him too, right?"

The red eyes zoomed into the trumpeter. And then zoomed out.

As soon as Kurogane finished merging his DNA with the sofa, there were footsteps at the hall outside of the living room, and Mioru walked in alone, in nothing but a pair of shorts, hair mussed and still damp from a shower. The soccer player only got to Subaru before he looked up, saw Fai and Kurogane, and seemed to stop breathing.

Kurogane seemed to have stopped breathing too.

Fai nudged Kurogane with his elbow. Kurogane didn't really move much. Subaru looked up gently at Mioru, and then tugged him down into a sitting position on the ottoman. "Hi," Mioru coughed out first, at the initial surprise of being pulled down.

The lines between Kurogane's eyebrows were slowly deepening into a scowl of…something negative and nervous. "Hey."

Next, Mioru somehow said, "Hi, Fai."

Fai smiled and bowed his head, "Good morning. You look good. How've you been? We heard you won the game."

Mioru was brushing his hand up and down his arm. "Erm, yeah. I guess you heard about us doing our off-season training in New York this year?"

"The Maestro talks a lot," Fai said lightly, abruptly standing up. "Meaning that Subaru and I have to practice a lot to keep up with him. We're actually going now—to pick up our instruments from the shop. Seishiro makes it mandatory that after international things, we get our instruments reassured and so on." He looked down at a bewildered Subaru. "C'mon."

The trumpeter blinked. "Yes?"

"We're going to the shop. To get out instruments," Fai said mildly. "Get up."

"But—I'm—" Subaru stood up, confused.

"You can get dressed on the way out—let's go." Fai was already pulling the half-naked Subaru towards the elevator.

"Fai, _seriously_—"

"You won't get molested again, I promise," were the last words that could be heard from the two musicians before the elevator bell echoed and the doors closed.

Awkward was an understatement.

Mioru looked back to Kurogane—who still hadn't directed a single word toward the soccer player once. The martial artist was staring straight at Mioru now, eyes serious and undecipherable. "So. What's up?" Kurogane said, leaning back from his previously slouched position.

"Not much." Mioru shrugged. "Just…yeah."

"What's that mean?" The martial artist looked up through his bangs.

Mioru's bit his lip. He was looking right into Kurogane's eyes—the same eyes he'd looked at for an entire three years of his life; constantly looking. The same red clear eyes that'd watched him during his games, when his parents never bothered to show. The same smoldering red eyes that'd watched him as they drew apart from a kiss. The same red eyes that'd watched him, _held_ him, as Kurogane moved inside Mioru for the first time—and all the times.

"Nothing," Mioru said dismissively, looking away—tearing away. This was such crap. He knew it wasn't going to be solved right off, but he hadn't expected seeing Kurogane to hurt this much. It hurt, but Mioru didn't _not_ want to see Kurogane. It hurt so much. It hurt so, so much because Kurogane seemed so happy.

Not happy and in smiling-laughing-the-sun-shines-on-me happy, because Kurogane had never rolled that way, but happy as in, he didn't need Mioru. His life was peachy keen in this perfect New York world, and now that Mioru had come to get some closure—or some something—everything was going to be messed up. And it hurt Mioru to know that because of he himself, Kurogane would just have more shit to sweep away. That was all Mioru was to Kurogane—something that still hadn't been taken care of and put away on a shelf that'd never be reached again.

"Hey." Mioru looked up at Kurogane. The martial artist was looking at his knees. Scowling. Naturally, of course. "He was right you know."

Mioru blinked a few times. "What?"

"Fai."

"What?" Mioru said again, confused.

"He was right," Kurogane mumbled. "You do look good."

Mioru's heart sort of stopped. Kind of. And then it restarted with a painful jerk. It was comments like that that made Mioru want to punch Kurogane some times. And make-out with him at others. Which would lead to more punching because why couldn't Kurogane get it through his fucking head that saying stuff like that _didn't help the cause_. The fucking, fucking cause that Mioru fucking wanted to completely get and be over Kurogane.

"Not good enough," Mioru said, with a small bitter smile. "Apparently."

Kurogane seemed to deflate. "Fucking fuck, Mioru." He stood up and walked around the couch, completely circling a good few meters away from Mioru, going to stand against the refrigerator. He looked at Mioru through the kind of scowl that the soccer player knew meant it was one of those times where Kurogane didn't know what else to do but punch Mioru.

"What?" Mioru asked, simply.

"I was telling the goddamn truth, and I was being civil," Kurogane grated the words out, not looking so much angry as something else close to nervousness. "And then you just wreck my entire fucking attempt, so thanks. Jesus."

Mioru just looked back straight at him. "I was telling the truth, too. And it's sure nice to see that you're trying to be civil after not seeing me in ages."

Kurogane sputtered—really, really, he sputtered. "_You're_ the one who's been fucking avoiding me."

Mioru knew it was true—he'd been avoiding Kurogane rather than the other way around, but he didn't want to deal with this like that. Kurogane already seemed pissed at him for whatever reason it was this time, and it'd hurt, but at least it'd hurt less than Kurogane pitying him or shit like that if Mioru _admitted_ that he'd been avoiding Kurogane.

"Have not," he said tinily. It came out ridiculously quiet and insubstantial. But it was all Mioru had to fight back with—which, no how pathetic, perfectly showed what Mioru had against Kurogane.

And that was nothing.

Really, Mioru wasn't mad at Kurogane. Mioru had long since left that stage, and Mioru had never blamed Kurogane for wanting Fai instead of himself. Mioru was pretty sure that _he himself _would rather have Fai instead of his own self, too. Fai was everything Mioru wasn't, and Fai was everything anyone—male or female—could want, regardless.

The one thing Mioru couldn't stand was himself. He couldn't stand how angry he'd been at himself when he'd finally pushed it over the edge and caused Kurogane to leave back then, and he was still angry at himself now for ever letting that happen. And then, he was angry at himself for not having enough nerve to just face Kurogane and get over it. Get over him.

It was scary. It was absolutely frightening to think that this awful feeling would last forever. Would Mioru have to go through life always wondering what it would've been like if he hadn't messed it all up? Would Mioru spend the rest of his life pining after Kurogane and unable to revert simply to being best friends?

He didn't want to imagine things like that. It was terrifying. He didn't want to live his life like that. He wanted to be able to wake up in the mornings without something always gnawing at the corner of his thoughts. He didn't want to be mentally kicking himself for having been such a jerk every time he saw Kurogane and Fai together.

"What do I have to do not to piss you off every time we see each other?" Kurogane finally said. Mioru's head snapped up. The martial artist no longer looked pissed. He just looked tired of this—tired of Mioru.

Long before Mioru had met Kurogane, long before any of this had ever even started, Mioru had been an only child with parents that seemed to have no time for nothing but themselves. And it'd seemed that the only reason they even bothered to hire nursemaids to take care of Mioru was so that when they died, their businesses wouldn't go to their social-climbing opponents. Or maybe, if Mioru became even bigger than they were on the ladder, they would have an increased status.

And anything other than that, if Mioru had ever brought something up to them that had nothing to do with improving his chances of being over-successful and social-climbing, then his parents would look at him as if he had just taxed all the energy they had for the day. Meaning, Mioru was more than used to being treated as if he was nothing but a bother—as if he was just a chore. Mioru knew that you had to work to be loved—that you had to be good enough, otherwise there would be no reason for someone to love you.

Which was why he understood why Kurogane loved Fai rather than Mioru.

Which was why Kurogane currently looked precisely how Mioru's parents always did.

Which was why Mioru felt his temper finally breaking, and his nerves finally tearing.

Which was why Mioru found himself upending the table and kicking it to the side with all the strength of the professional soccer player he was. "You don't have to fucking do anything," Mioru said in a low voice. "You don't have to see me at all—_I_ don't ever want to fucking see you again."

But Mioru wasn't quite sure why he was suddenly sprinting out of the room, trying his fucking damned hardest not to make a single sound, and not to let the moisture that'd built so fucking fast in his eyes spill over until he was clean out of the room and out of the hallway.

He'd meant to run back into his own room, but when he reached the first turn, he simply found himself falling into the nearest empty, open room—stumbling through the doorway, seeing nothing but red and anger and tears. It wasn't long that he was in the room before he noticed that he wasn't alone in it. The room was empty, except for the usual furniture scattered artfully throughout, and in one of the chairs, sat Senryuu.

Mioru raised his head heavily, wet eyes glaring. "Leave."

Senryuu merely looked back.

On the ground, Mioru turned away from the man, tucking his knees to hide his face. "Didn't you say that you were leaving for the office?"

"Fai and Subaru caught me at the garage and told me to stay."

"Oh." Mioru wiped his eyes on his bare arm as discreetly as he could. "Go away."

"How come you're crying?"

Mioru didn't answer. He didn't need another person pitying him for his lack of everything that made someone likeable. "Seriously. Go away. Please."

There was concern now. "Mioru?"

"Go away," Mioru said it more insistently—_God_, he hated how his voice shook with the pressure from the tears. "I mean it. Just leave me alone." But he hated more how he always ended up doing that. Most of the time when he said he wanted to be alone, he really didn't. He really wished that someone—anyone—would just care enough to stay even if Mioru threw chairs at them or beat them with his own fists.

Maybe that was the reason Mioru liked Subaru so much—Subaru had stayed with Seishiro even when Seishiro was seriously injuring him physically and emotionally. Clearly, Mioru knew that there would never be someone who would stay with him through that much, but he couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be anyone that would stay with him through at least something little like this.

Kurogane had always left after Mioru started to shout and throw things. Perhaps it would be asking too much to stay any longer than the upending furniture stage. And it wasn't as if Mioru was doing this out of pure spite—when Mioru was upset, he was upset, and he just didn't want to be left alone.

But thinking about this when it was just Senryuu—someone who Mioru only knew for about a day and a half, and in that time, the man probably had decided that Mioru needed counseling sessions.

"Please just go," Mioru said in a quieter voice. He stood up. He could feel his fingers beginning to feel the urge to move.

Senryuu didn't seem to move from his chair. Mioru silently walked over to the small glass table near the door. His heartbeat surged for a split second, and Mioru kicked the table over with his foot—imagining he was sending a soccer ball straight for its goal.

The glass broke apart from its legs with an loud, tinny crash, and the shards blossomed on the wooden floor, some sliding to a stop right near Mioru's bare feet.

Mioru heard Senryuu finally clatter to his feet with a softly murmured, "Shit." The athlete could only smile and snort quietly to himself—like everyone else, Senryuu was probably getting ready to walk around the glass and out the door, pondering if Mioru was insane or just mentally challenged.

"See you," Mioru said emptily, kneeling down near the glass and getting ready to clean up his mess—Seishiro and Subaru were allowing him to stay here, after all, and even if Seishiro was a bastard, Subaru deserved better. Had it only been Seishiro, Mioru probably would've picked up a few shards and put them in the Maestro's mattress.

But a shadow appeared beside Mioru, and he found Senryuu taking off his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves, and kneeling right beside Mioru himself. "What d'you mean 'see you'?" A corner of Senryuu's mouth tugged into a smile. "Glass is really hard to see, you know. And if you get hurt, your coach and team will probably be on me like rice."

All Mioru could blankly retort with was, "I'm not that valuable."

Senryuu laughed under his breath. "You're the captain, right?"

"Um…"

"Then you're valuable."

Mioru nodded, almost just to himself. "'Course I am," he muttered, "because I'm the captain." He pushed some more shards carefully to the side.

Senryuu nudged him gently—shoulder-to-shoulder. "Not just because you're the captain, right? Your team loves you, I bet."

"Not particularly." Mioru added some more shards to his and Senryuu's growing glass pile.

There was a swift pause during which Senryuu was arranging the pile so the sharp parts weren't sticking out too much. Then, "Have you ever asked them if they just wanted you because you were good at soccer?"

"No, but I can tell." Mioru tried gathering the smaller bits of the glass into his hands in one swoop. "I've been with them for a while now, so I'm pretty sure they just rather I keep to myself. They've all got their own friends and family."

"Are they friends with each other?"

"Well, yeah. Of course. Just not with me," Mioru shrugged.

Senryuu was silent again, wordlessly continuing to pick up the remainder of the shards. "Why'd you tell me to leave?"

Mioru looked away. "Didn't you want to? You don't even know me."

"I know. But I don't get why you'd tell me to leave, and then when I decide to stay after you knocked over the table for no reason, you don't even fight. It's like you wanted a reason for me to stay." Senryuu pulled his jacket over and started carefully transporting the glass pile onto it.

"I…" Mioru licked his lips. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just a jerkoff like that. Maybe I'm just mad. I don't know."

Senryuu wrapped his jacket around the shards. His eyes were on his work, and meticulously not anywhere near Mioru's own gaze. "You're not a jerkoff. But if you're mad, well, I'm here to listen, if you want."

Mioru blinked at the ground. He looked up, suddenly feeling safe to. Senryuu had the bundle of glass cocooned in his jacket, and nestled in his arms. He smiled hesitantly at Mioru—sunlight streaming through dark blond hair, and reflecting off of silver eyes. "I'm really weird," Mioru said, "y'know."

"Cool." Senryuu grinned. "So am I."

* * *

_A/N: Three updates in about three days. I'm so proud of myself. (Although, this will probably work the way bears hibernate. They store lots of food and then sleep it off. So I'm updating as much as I can while vacation still lasts.) Anyhoo, it's been a while since I've actually commented on the chapter rather than my uninteresting life. So, has anyone read the most recent xxxholic chapter?_

_Y'know. It's the one where Watanuki is showing us he's capable of acting straight? And whorish. But we all knew he had the potential for that. (I CAN NOT EXPRESS TO YOU HOW MUCH I 3 WATAN-UKE-WHORE) He's so good at it, and I actually wrote that part *points up* LONG before this chapter came out. I mean, the new Yuuko-Watanuki had already been born, so I decided that I'd take advantage of the new xxxholic chapters and the timeskip between Secrets and Unveiled to write Watanuki like this. (IT'S FUN) _

_I just wished it hadn't been Spider Lady who's kissed him. I mean, I know that if it'd been Doumeki, Watanuki would be in Spider Lady's place, and it'd be on Doumeki's lap, since he's Watan-uke, but y'know, Straight!Watan-uke is still hot. We have to be grateful to CLAMP._

_(And just in case I don't get around to another update before the end of this week, HAPPY NEW YEAR'S. 2010....I feel old. I'm going to be sixteen next year....*cringes*....driving....closer to college...and life......)_


	7. Restart

Chapter Five: Restart

Subaru glared at Fai. Fai seemed amused at Subaru's failure of an attempt at glaring. The trumpeter himself really wouldn't call what he was doing glaring, anyhow, rather than just a slightly upset glance. But Subaru thought that he had a more than good reason to be upset at the violinist right now. Seeing as Fai had more or less kidnapped him half-naked, and midway through the drive, given him an exchange of clothes with no underwear.

And the only thing Fai had said the entire time, all the way up to this moment, standing in front of Seishiro's office door, was, "If things go well, you won't _need_ any underwear."

Subaru had known Fai long enough to know the tone of voice Fai sometimes subconsciously used when the fact that he had lived in the same household as Yuui came out, and how it always meant bad, bad, bad things. "Before we knock," the trumpeter said, "could you just tell me what you're about to do this time?" Subaru nudged Fai imploringly—as imploringly as he could without moving to much, since lack of underwear severely chafed. "And please say that you're not going to use me as bait again."

"Stop stressing so much." Fai's voice was irritatingly soothing. "You'll start to chafe."

Subaru sighed, and adjusted his pants.

Fai rapped his knuckles against the door twice, and waited just a moment long enough before taking the doorknob and letting himself inside. Subaru followed in feeling like this would probably end up with him stomach down on Seishiro's desk again.

The Maestro's chair was angled towards the window, his ankles crossed and resting on the windowsill. One of his hands was on his desk, fingers twirling a silver pen, and the other hand was buried in his hair, tousling the strands freely back and forth. His eyes flickered to the two entrees. "What?"

"It's great to see you, too," Fai smiled, gracefully linking his fingers through Subaru's, and holding them up for Seishiro to see.

The conductor returned the smile and regarded the intertwined hands for a minute. "You _know_ I'm not comfortable when you molest Subaru."

"Compared to you, I'm touching him in a way that respects his personal space and at the same time displays our honestly sincere friendship." Fai's smile widened. "Right?" He tilted his blond head toward Subaru. The trumpeter blinked unenthusiastically.

"Personal space isn't allowed to be in your vocabulary," Seishiro said. "Yuui Fluorite is your brother."

Fai shrugged. "That's mean. But anyhow, I made Subaru not wear any underwear today. Look. Turn around, Subaru."

At this point, while he turned, Subaru was _sure_ that this would somehow end up with him stomach down on Seishiro's desk again and with Fai getting what he wanted. After seconds of facing the door and slowly feeling Seishro's gaze warm on him, he could hear Seishiro sighing, "What do you want, Fai?"

Fai twirled Subaru back around so the trumpeter could see him smiling quietly at the Maestro. "Put Senryuu off duty from the office. Put him in charge as the company representative for supervising the off-season training of the team you're sponsoring for next year's championship."

Seishiro looked at the violinist straightly. "You mean Mioru's team?"

"Yes."

The conductor's gaze changed. Even though his eyes remained bright and brisk, there was something that narrowed in the Maestro's look. It scrutinized on Fai.

Then—

Seishiro smiled. "You're on his side, I guess?"

Fai smiled back. "You guess wrong. I'm sort of like an ambassador, if that's the term. But you've gotta admit. He got you on this one."

"Maybe," the conductor's smile was becoming more strained. "But my planning was just a bit more gradual. He's probably pressured—since he's rushing into this."

Subaru was getting lost. Or even, he passed lost five minutes ago. Now, he was wandering in the middle of nowhere, blind. Although, from the sound and look of things, it seemed like a long-since-resurrected issue that could only be from Yuuko.

Yuuko, whom they hadn't heard from in almost years. Yuuko, whom the socialite world was still uproaring about, from the scandals that she'd used to demolish the recent generation. The recent generation, who, from how Seishiro was currently using the magazines written about them for kindling, was nothing compared to Subaru's generation. During Subaru's generation, Yuuko had been their ally as well as their equal in battle—they'd been on par, and wonderful at butting head on head.

These days, it was no longer a battle for the generation to win, rather than for them to just wait for Yuuko to wipe them out one-by-one. Perhaps it was the incoming of nouveau riche that was destroying the socialite legend. But it was a snowball effect in that Yuuko was getting bored from doing nothing but demolishing unsteady bimbos and jackasses with an easy hand. The girls were the sort that Hokuto and Tomoyo, in their day, would've used as boot polish. And the sort that Karen, in her day, would've not only used as boot polish, but as something to stomp on after her boots were dirtied.

And the boys—the boys were so horrendous that even Seishiro became nearly frustrated at the state they were leaving the socialite reputation in. After they'd gone through just a semi-quarter of what Subaru had been through, they would begin dragging in their parents and the law about how this was illegal and this was unfair, and they didn't really do this, they were framed, and how Yuuko was making things worse and breach of privacy and so on and so forth, etc.

It was of no surprise to Subaru that Yuuko had finally cracked and looked for a way to bring entertainment back into the socialite world. And there was also no surprise in the fact that she was seeking this entertainment through her favorites of the Circus. Neither was it a surprise that Seishiro had seemingly done his best to not let Subaru know much, if at all, about this matter.

Needless to say, Subaru was past the stage of despairing every single time he found out that Seishiro rather kept his secrets with Fai or Yuui when it came to concern Yuuko. He'd learned that there were just some things Seishiro thought Subaru couldn't understand, or possibly wouldn't approve of, or perhaps the Maestro just didn't want Subaru to know.

The trumpeter wasn't quite sure if he found this saddening, but he definitely didn't find it hurtful. Once upon a time, he'd found it absolutely tragic. But he'd done a lot of growing up. Everyone had. Even though you were expected to mature during high school, to become a right young adult for college, Subaru felt that he, and everyone else, had actually gotten their act together after college. In the recent past years, just touching their mid-twenties. And for some like Seishiro, it'd taken longer. It'd taken him till he was near thirty as he was now, and he was still growing up.

"Or maybe his approach is the right one," Fai continued without a blip. Another angelic smile.

Seishiro leaned back in his chair. "Would you believe me if I said that I was already planning to do that anyway?"

"I'd believe you," Fai said gamely. "You've never been one to copycat. So fair's fair. It's kind of a unanimous move, anyway, so it probably won't count, you know."

The conductor's eyebrows went up.

The violinist added, "And he has ways of getting things done, too. Just because Senryuu is under _you_, doesn't mean that he wouldn't have had a way to do it himself, either."

"You aren't very neutral for an ambassador," Seishiro commented lightly.

Fai gave one more smile. "I said I'm _sort of like_ an ambassador. Which you would've gotten, if you hadn't been ogling at Subaru for the entire time I was talking."

Subaru blinked. "Fai," he said quietly, "he wasn't looking at me—"

"He was," the violinist said, staring challengingly at Seishiro. "And even if he wasn't, he was thinking about it. So since I've done what I needed to get done, how about you do what you want to get done?" This was directed at the Maestro.

Seishiro sighed. "What do you want now, Fai?"

Fai shrugged, starting to back away toward the door. "Nothing. I'm just observing, once again, about how every time I come to see you two, you're always pulling some new bullshit over Subaru, and how I'm really shocked that he still hasn't gotten sick and tired of it after over a decade."

The Maestro stood up, his smile turning sickeningly saccharine. "I'm warning you, Fai."

Fai waved his fingers mockingly and matched the disgusting smile with one of his own, as he leaned against the doorway. "I'll take Kuro-tan home now. I'm sure he and Mioru have already destroyed at least one floor of your penthouse." With that, the violinist shut the door.

The silence wasn't awkward, so much as simply silent. Seishiro wasn't looking at Subaru. He seemed to be staring down at his desk, unable to neither sit back down nor take any steps toward the trumpeter. Subaru decided, as what normally had to happen after Seishiro received another figurative kick in the face from Fai, that he'd have to speak first.

He walked up slowly to the desk, placing his hands on the edge and ducking his head down, bringing his eyes upward to look up playfully at Seishiro's hidden expression. The Maestro's face was floating in the sea of nothingness in regard to emotion. Subaru put his hand over Seishiro's. "Are you okay?"

There were times when Seishiro wouldn't respond to anyone, even Subaru, for hours after Yuui and Fai felt like throwing one of their smiling tantrums, but this time, Seishiro did respond, but it wasn't to Subaru's question. "How much bullshit do I put you through? Truthfully?" Seishiro's face was wiped clean of expression.

In all truthfulness, Subaru thought that whenever Seishiro threw one of his RE: tantrums as an effect of a Yuui/Fai tantrum, was a considerable amount of bullshit already, and that was without the additive of all the daily why-did-I-even-hire-Senryuu bullshit, the sex-in-public-places-is-normal bullshit, the I'm-horny-so-shut-up-I'll-fuck-you-on-a-potted-plant-if-I-have-to bullshit, the do-you-hate-me-yes-you-do-insecurity bullshit, and the I'm-a-bastard-leave-me-angst bullshit.

And then, of course, there were also plenty more subcategories.

But telling Seishiro any of this was pointless. Subaru knew that whenever Yuui, or more commonly, Fai came to play, Seishiro was treading in deep waters and that usually came with a complimentary migraine as it was, not to mention the stress from having to deal with the mind games Fai seemed to have made his hobby nowadays.

Meaning that Subaru thought was the best way of keeping the bullshit to a minimum was to just always straight out say what was the truth, but say it in a way to make Seishiro know that Fai was just being Fai and stressing out about it didn't have any significance.

"A lot." Subaru blinked, and shrugged.

Seishiro nodded in stride and put his eyes back to the desk. The inevitable moping was so obvious even Subaru didn't think he had enough energy left to handle it what with the marathon sex Seishiro insisted upon late last night and earlier this morning. "Seishiro," Subaru continued, unable to hide the annoyed lilt that tinted his voice. "You _know_ that you're not supposed to listen to whatever comes out of Fai's mouth, right?"

"Unless it's true," Seishiro murmured.

Subaru, if asked again afterward wouldn't be able to answer why, but at that moment, he found himself climbing onto the Maestro's desk, putting his hands on Seishiro's shoulders and turning his head to kiss the conductor's lips full on, open mouth and all. Seishiro seemed somewhat determined not to respond at first, but it was only seconds until the trumpeter felt fingers threading through his hair and holding him in place.

And the hand held him in place until Subaru was gasping for air, but not for lack of it. As he breathed in and out, failing to steady his heartbeat, Subaru cupped the side of Seishiro's face with his hand and said, "So what if you give me bullshit?"

Seishiro merely looked at him. Waiting.

"I stay anyway, don't I?" Subaru placed his flushed forehead against Seishiro's, and closed his eyes.

Although there was no vocal reply, Subaru felt the conductor's face draw away, only to return pressed against the trumpeter's collarbone, warm breath against pale skin.

Subaru smiled.

* * *

When Mioru finally gathered his shit back together and returned to the living room, he found that the sky had darkened—which meant it had to be well into the night, since it was summer—and Kurogane was gone from his sofa seat, instead, replaced with a peacefully sleeping Subaru, who seemed to be wearing nothing beneath the blanket but an overlarge button-down shirt.

The button-down shirt was suspiciously around the size Seishiro wore, but since that suspicion was probably valid anyhow, Mioru didn't spare the matter more thought than it needed, because too much thinking these days gave him a migraine. The Maestro, in fact, was at the kitchen, clattering around with glasses and bottles of alcohol and more than likely concocting something to either put Mioru to sleep and/or to wake Subaru up and/or make the trumpeter horny.

Again.

Mioru warily sat on the far end of the sofa, putting the greatest berth he could manage between Subaru and himself, which was fairly difficult considering Subaru's legs were quite stretched out. He waited for a moment during which perhaps the Maestro might acknowledge his presence without Mioru having to first cough louder than a bullhorn.

The conductor turned his head slightly. "May I help you?"

"Did you have office sex?"

Seishiro turned back away. "Maybe. Did you diplomatically get any further with Mr. You-ou?"

Mioru twiddled his thumbs. "Not very much. I kind of broke some of your furniture in that room down the hall."

"I know. Senryuu tried to cover for you, which of course was easily found out considering no matter how irritating; Senryuu has too much self-control and sense to do anything that ridiculous. Deductively, it had to be you."

"Oh." Mioru's thumb-twiddling sped up a few notches. "D'you want me to pay for it or—"

"I really would love you make you pay for it," Seishiro said, turning around with a glass of ice water in one hand. He walked around the counter and crossed over to sit between Mioru and Subaru. "But if Subaru found out, I'd be celibate for a month."

"Oh." At the end of this, the skin on Mioru's thumbs would be peeling. "Sorry, anyhow." He paused. "Um—"

"Senryuu is in charge of overseeing your team's off-season training," Seishiro mentioned coolly, as he stroked the hair carefully from Subaru's sweat-beaded forehead. "Since my company is sponsoring your team for this season, and you're all the faces for whatever product they've decided to spit out, this arrangement makes sense, right?"

Mioru had long since learned from his dabbles with the Circus that even the Fluorite twins had some sort of respect for the Maestro's unique branch of common sense that probably only _made _any sort of sense if you were the Maestro, or if you _spoke_ Maestro fluently, which in that case meant you were either Fuuma or Subaru. "Sure. But why do I need to know this?"

Seishiro shrugged. "I should at least take some pains to make sure that you get along well with him, shouldn't I? Since you'll be seeing a lot of each other, it wouldn't do if you couldn't at least act civil around one another."

The athlete wished Subaru would wake up. As this conversation's content increased, the Mioru's amount of comprehension decreased. "Um…I don't know him? So…why wouldn't I be civil with him?"

The conductor smiled a smile that made Mioru worry in lots of different ways. "Just making sure. Never hurts, does it?"

"Um," in all truthfulness, Mioru's head was in fact starting to throb, but he wasn't going to one-up the Maestro's mocking sarcasm because something like that would end Mioru's life a few decades early. "Okay then."

Seishiro smiled again. "Good. Now, run along to bed." Mioru stood mechanically and tried not to look the musician in the eyes again—this living business was scarier than he thought it was supposed to be. "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

As soon as Mioru was into the hallway and out of sight, Seishiro turned his attention to Subaru's suddenly open, alert, and extremely awake eyes—huge, round, liquid green eyes that reflected the lights shining down from the ceiling. The Maestro grinned. "You were awake this entire time."

Subaru just smiled back peacefully, abruptly pulling a well-acted yawn. "What're you talking about?" He let Seishiro pull him into a sitting position, and the trumpeter lifted his legs into the conductor's lap. "Where'd Mioru go?"

"To bed." Seishiro kept his hand wrapped around Subaru's wrists and pulled them face-to-face. Nose-to-nose. Lips-to-lips. "Kind of like where we should go."

Subaru said nothing, but there was exhaustion and exasperation leaking into his eyes that was already starting to hide away from Seishiro. There'd once been a time when the Maestro would've simply abused Subaru's utter compliance to wring out as much sex out of the trumpeter as he wanted, because no matter how many people were willing to have sex with Seishiro, there'd been no one who catered endlessly to his erratic and completely unreasonable amounts of sex.

Except for Subaru.

But Seishiro, even though it'd taken him over a decade as Fai had put it, had learned and was still learning—little by little, but surely and definitely—that if he just opened his eyes and actually paid Subaru even the tiniest of attention, if he let Subaru rest when he needed to rest, when it was time for Subaru to give, then the trumpeter would give more and give more fully than Seishiro could ever expect.

So Seishiro buried his fingers in Subaru's soft hair and continued, "What's with the face? I just said we should go to bed—don't you want any sleep?" The look of relief and gratefulness on Subaru's face made Seishiro's heart skip one beat and then surge forward with two extra.

After all, Seishiro thought as he watched Subaru pull on a t-shirt over his boxer briefs and then slip rather adorably into bed and got into bed, when Subaru wanted to, when Subaru was awake and alert and sharp—

Subaru could give enough to make Seishiro come within seconds.

* * *

Baby fine black hair. A small hand on a muscled forearm. A large hand resting on a slender, curved waist. Perfectly round grey-blue eyes looking over the neat, typed letters of a plane ticket. Syrupy golden eyes caressing a slight body, dressed in all black despite the heat. Two fair-skinned foreigners in an airport of dark-skinned natives.

Kamui blinked his huge eyes once, lazily, and leaned into Fuuma, watching planes take off from the runway outside their gate window. The stars twinkled in the dark backdrop, not outshined at all by the lights of the terminal. "Who's side are we going to be on?" the writer asked softly.

"Who's side do you want to be on?" Fuuma grinned out the window.

"No one's, really." Kamui gave a little yawn. "If it's not Yuuko, I'm not going to follow them. One's a bastard I know, and one's a nobody that I don't know. Who's side are you on?"

"One's my brother and one used to be my teammate. So I guess I'm on neither side, too."

Kamui's mouth tugged up into a small smile just as a woman's voice rang out through the airport in a language that neither of them knew, but that both of them had had to come to understand by living in the land that they'd leave in minutes.

Fuuma slapped the writer's ass and said briskly, "There's our cue, I guess. Let's go."

Kamui took one last look at the lined-up planes and then asked, "Think this'll be interesting? We're all grown up this time."

The athlete just grinned down before swooping in for a swift kiss. "Are we?" He entwined his arm around the writer's small waist again. "Either way, things are about to start all over again, huh?"

* * *

_"Welcome back Upper East Siders. After a long hot summer away, I see it didn't take you long to dirty up the clean slates I gave you. My inbox is overflowing, so let's get to the good stuff, shall we?"_

_--Gossip Girl from "Reversals of Fortune"_

* * *

_A/N: So....after....a month or so, I finally updated again, and since it's spring break, you can expect to possibly have a new Compelled chapter under your hands soon (depends on your definition of "soon"), and maybe if we're feeling optimistic you can even hope for Impulse. (But you'd have to be super optimistic, because I'm at a crucial chapter in that one). Anyhow, about this chapter that we've got here, it's a fairly good length, so I'm happy about that, and the content ain't so bad, eh? _

_e_o_


	8. Wild Things

Chapter Six: Wild Things

Mioru waved his hand above the crowd, pulling his hood further down over his eyes even though his bangs were already matted down against his forehead with sweat. The last thing he needed was to get a happily scolding message from his manager, Yuuto Kigai, all the way back in Japan because the press caught him unawares at the airport. There were already cameras waiting and paparazzi getting ready to pounce on Japan's national soccer team's arrival to the states for their off-season training.

He even bulked up on the clothing so as to make his silhouette disfigured, as the paparazzi loved describing his uniquely built stature—somehow tall and full of muscle, but wiry and thin all at once—in their tabloids whenever they managed to catch him clubbing or training out of bounds. Then again, they loved attacking Watanuki's form, too, but Watanuki looked tall, even though he wasn't really, and Mioru looked small, even though his height was somewhere taller than Watanuki and shorter than Doumeki.

Mioru watched the airplane back up against the building, and the crew began to open the door and set up the detachable hallway to let the passengers off. They opened the doors and a loud ping told him that his teammates would start debarking from the plane. The paparazzi started to rev up their cameras, and the few legitimate reporters told their cameramen to start shooting. The surrounding bystanders either kept passing or paused for moments to look with interest—New York was a common port for foreigners, meaning it'd be more surprising if people _did_ crowd.

Touya came out first, Yukito on his left and Sakura on his right, with Syaoran trailing not too far behind, looking three parts hassled and one part wondering if he should keep his distance when it came to Sakura. Kakyo and Sorata were a few teammates later, Arashi in between. After them, Seiichiro and (Mioru's head began to ache) Karen Kasumi, of all people, trailed immediately behind. He was so preoccupied in working up a proper tantrum to throw at Seiichiro for bringing one of the biggest socialites on the scene right now (he honestly didn't fucking care if she was his wife, she had a fucking movie about to launch and the media was going to shoot rockets up Mioru's ass for this), that he almost missed Watanuki and Doumeki walking out as the caboose.

All fifteen of Mioru's teammates smiled at the flashing of the cameras, eyes shielded from the lights by their sunglasses, and bowed their way out of the crowd of reporters sticking microphones into their noses. They maneuvered their way carefully towards Mioru, close enough so that Mioru could blend in with them on their way to baggage, but not obviously enough so that the reporters would start hanging off of him, too.

Sakura immediately looped arms with him, and whipped off her glasses, hair smelling like cherry blossoms engulfing his ear. "So, how are Subaru and Seishiro?" she chirped, ignoring the daggers from Touya and the miserable raincloud hovering over Syaoran.

"They're fine."

"Is Hokuto here?" she continued. "Kakyo wants to see her, don't you, Kakyo?"

Kakyo didn't seem to hear Sakura—whether on purpose or unintentional, Mioru wasn't sure because with Kakyo the only thing Mioru was ever sure about was that even if the other team got the ball and Watanuki was off his game (which was rare), Kakyo wouldn't even let them get through the half-line.

"I don't know what sort of tabs Seishiro keeps on his cousin," Karen began, arm looped through Seiichiro's, "But I spoke with Hokuto a few weeks ago, and she invited me to do a collaboration music video with her—possibly to promote her and Tomoyo's new line, and my movie."

Mioru's forehead vein was starting to pulsate. "You can ask Seishiro tonight then. I'm sure he'll be glad to talk to you about that."

Suddenly, Syaoran nudged Mioru's side—the one that didn't have an armful of Sakura in it. His teammate grinned at him. "You sound happy."

Mioru rolled his eyes. "How goes, baby boy?"

"All right. Sakura and I had fun in South Carolina."

"I bet you did." Mioru looked down at his teammate's girlfriend and then back to his teammate and died a little bit inside. Getting sandwiched between an almost sickeningly in-love-couple at the smoldering airport with a bunch of other too-famous-for-their-and-Mioru's-own-good socialites that were attracting headache-developing-paparazzi-and-autograph-desiring-fans _was_ something that'd happen to him.

* * *

If not for Seishiro catching him by the shoulders with one-hand, Subaru probably would've fallen over when Kamui was thrown into his arms by Fuuma. The trumpeter had hardly any time to even look at his brother's face because his twin had already upped out of the embrace to scowl up at the soccer player for catapulting him out of the plane—even if it _was_ to have him hug his brother. But other than smelling like sun and coconuts, Kamui looked like Kamui—the same height as Subaru, the same eyes as Subaru, the same face as Subaru, and the same voice as Subaru. Nothing really different.

Fuuma, however, seemed to have added either a few more ounces of muscle, or a few more centimeters of height. But Subaru truly hoped he was just hallucinating because he was pretty sure that you couldn't keep growing at this age, and Fuuma played soccer, not basketball. "Looking good, Subaru," Fuuma grinned, not even bothering to acknowledge that Seishiro was alive.

Kamui rolled his eyes and leaned in to kiss Subaru discreetly on the lips. "How did the adoption process go? Have you potty trained him yet?"

"Mioru's fine," Subaru laughed, though he was unsure whether he maybe he should be worrying instead.

"Aside from breaking our furniture in a fit of anger, though that's normal for newly house-oriented pets, I'm sure," Seishiro added coolly. "Either that or they start humping your leg nonstop, isn't that right, baby brother?"

Fuuma grinned. "I assure you that I hump a lot more than just Kamui's leg."

Subaru thought that the shade of purple Kamui's face was turning indicated the possibility of his brother having a fainting spell. He gave an internal sigh. He loved Kamui and he loved Fuuma because Kamui and Seishiro (doubtfully) loved Fuuma and of course he loved Seishiro, but having all three of them together never ended in the greatest of outcomes—entertaining and somewhat productive outcomes, sure, but never an outcome that had any semblance of peace.

In fact, if a country wanted to wage war, Subaru should simply send his brother, his lover, and his lover's brother/brother's lover, and they would take care of everything fine and dandy.

"Anyway," Subaru concluded before Seishiro could kill Fuuma/verbally abuse Kamui, or before Fuuma could rape Kamui/awake the murderer within Seishiro, "how long are you two staying? Just for the party tonight and then through the week, or through the rest of off-season?"

"I'm doing publicity on the off-season training and the Sakurazuka company's new product," Kamui said, seemingly calm once more, with Fuuma's hand resting contentedly in the writer's back pocket. "I also hear that Karen Kasumi's in town—and Hokuto." He looked pointedly at Seishiro.

"Unfortunately for you and fortunately for me, my dear cousin won't be joining us until perhaps off-season's midway point. She's busy with her fall line promotions, and fashion week isn't for another month or two." Seishiro seemed immensely relieved to himself that Hokuto was going to be stuck across the country for at least another four more weeks.

"How about Yuui and Ashura?" Subaru asked quietly.

Fuuma and Kamui simultaneously shook their heads. "No word from them for a while," the athlete said, his mouth turning down into the beginnings of a frown. "Kamui…"

"The last Yuui talked to me was at the end of the finals, right before summer ended," Kamui shrugged. "He said that he and Ashura were still busy."

Subaru felt Seishiro's arm loop around his waist as the conductor said, "Those two are always busy. As far as the media is concerned, they've become the first ever socialite hermits." The trumpeter watched as Kamui's expression grew determined to hide his upset with Seishiro for not caring about Yuui, and with Yuui for adding infuriatingly aloof to the pianist's ever-growing list of faults.

Subaru slipped carefully out of Seishiro's hold and instead wrapped his arms around his twin's waist—something he hadn't done for years. "You guys should get to your hotel to get some sleep before the jet lag hits you too hard," he said, leaning his head on Kamui's shoulder. "Or else you won't have the energy you'll need to fight through the reporters to get to the party tonight."

Kamui gave a small smile, relief and gratitude spreading in his eyes. "Yeah."

* * *

_Long time no see, my butterflies._

_At least, my true butterflies. I think we all know that after that wild, wild Circus, all the little carnivals that tried to live up were just no fun to watch. And the despair and grief this caused me almost pushed me into joining Y and A's hermitage._

_But I'm back now._

_And, my darlings, one thing that I've missed for these past few years seems like it's going to be making a return to the grand scene—along with some things (and some people?) who weren't here the last time drama drove around the block._

_When was the last time the Maestro threw a party?_

_Furthermore, and more importantly, when was the last time the Maestro threw a party, made it clear that he didn't care about whether the press covered it, and had Little Boy Blue pretty and flushed on his arm?_

_Whew. Yeah. I know, right? It's been a while. My fingers are almost out of practice. But even if I have to sacrifice the joints of my hand to text and type this out, there's something that has to be addressed to all of you on the Upper East Side of New York and on the wealthy outskirts of Tokyo._

_As of officially tonight, you are all in a war zone._

_That's right. You'll have to start trading in your Kokin Lacquered Fedoras for battle helmets unless you want a canon through your skull. Because these soldiers come ruthless in their Salvatore Ferragamo Lamberto boots. And they'll as soon worry about the innocent bystanders being included in the war casualties as they'll about whether the United States has made it legal to smuggle in marijuana._

_Then again, if you know how to dodge an unusually sharpened conductor's baton, or a soccer ball thrown with the strength only a goalie has, maybe you won't need the helmet._

_Either way, all's fair in love and war—I don't know about you, but I'm starting to get waves of déjà vu._

_--The W in bWitch stands for War_

* * *

_Couture and canapé are just another Saturday night until you add a mask. But preparing for a ball is an event in itself._

_--____Gossip Girl from "Handmaiden's Tale"_

* * *

During Seishiro Sakurazuka's childhood birthday parties, one thing that never changed was that each year there had been a thing of interest that had topped last year's. From the baby-sized and baby-proof Ferris wheel at his first birthday to the belly dancers from India at his thirteenth. But by the age of fourteen, Seishiro Sakurazuka had planned his own parties, and those parties had become legends of their own. Whether it was unholy amounts of alcohol on both extremes of the dollar scale, or a tour of the world's illegal drugs, there was always something that caused someone to be led away by the cops at the end of the night until their parents could bribe away the charges.

Then, when Seishiro Sakurazuka went to college, he'd begun the almighty tradition that was Hexagon. Before the conductor had made it clear that that was his territory, Hexagon was no more than a potentially successful but otherwise empty club-like-blip on the radar. After all, Hexagon was not only where the Maestro had had his university legacies made, but also where the Maestro's protégés and where the Circus he led mad their legacies and legends and mysteries as well.

And now, years after Seishiro Sakurazuka had left his learning life behind, years after he had made his debut and settled himself into adult life—now—

Now he was throwing a party.

Well, the media was calling it a ball, but those who knew Seishiro knew better. Even if the drugs and exceedingly unhealthy amounts of alcohol had been bled out of Seishiro's veins, the party-holic in him never could be.

The only difference was that now they played by grown-up rules, and in the grown-up socialites' rulebook, balls were thrown for made purposes, or (if one was smart like Seishiro, and twisted the words), purposes were made in order to throw balls. And it just happened to be so convenient that Japan's National soccer team was in the neighborhood, so shouldn't Seishiro, as a _Japanese_ native living in New York, welcome them with a gracious masked ball?

His own kindness never ceased to amaze him.

"I'm sure it doesn't," Subaru said from beside him, somewhat amused and somewhat exasperated and Seishiro couldn't even bring himself to care because the conductor just really wanted to rip Subaru's mask off and kiss him until he suffocated. The trumpeter was wearing one of the many suits that Hokuto customized just for his body, with "customized" meaning "whored-out".

"I thought the masks were a nice touch," Seishiro continued explaining his plan of brilliant genius as he and Subaru leaned back against the bar, watching Sorata attempt to maneuver himself and Arashi on the dance floor without stepping on her feet. "Maybe it'll bring back wonderful memories."

Subaru made a face and looked up incredulously. "Of what? The wonderful New Year at Kyle's? If anything, I think you'll get another black eye from Kurogane." The trumpeter nudged the conductor teasingly. "The last one hasn't even healed all the way yet."

"I don't like to be reminded," Seishiro said wryly as Subaru reached up, playful, and gently touched the Maestro's right eyelid with his fingers. "Kurogane is going to get arrested someday if he keeps doing things like this."

The trumpeter smiled, that little mix of amusement and exasperation still present. "You're just mad because you didn't dodge fast enough."

Seishiro matched Subaru's gaze for a long minute, once again nearly drowning in a sea of green that was crystal clear and deep even with silk and feathers surrounding it. "You're not getting any sleep tonight," the conductor said.

"Threatening me?" Subaru said softly, as the Maestro's hand gripped the back of his belt.

"Promising," Seishiro adjusted.

"Fair's fair."

* * *

Kurogane was so eternally pissed it wasn't even funny. It was one thing to drag him into meeting with Mioru for a talk that not only went nowhere (in fact, nowhere would have been relatively better), but made things between them at least ten times worse because now Kurogane knew that Mioru wasn't indifferent (which, just like nowhere, was relatively better) to him, but rather _hated_ him, and just to rub salt into the wound, the Maestro was officially on the martial artist's ass for setting Mioru into a fit of rage that destroyed the conductor's furniture.

But it was another thing entirely to drag him to a masked ball hosted by the Maestro for the teammates of the person who hated him. And through all this, Fai seemed to be enjoying himself immensely—and probably enjoyed himself more _because_ it was at the expense of Kurogane's psychological well-being.

And yet, even though he had beside him a blond violinist who probably intended to put him into a state of mind that'd get him taken away by the men in white, Kurogane still had to somehow grudgingly appreciate the Maestro's work on this fucking ball because it was so fucking in your face that even if you hated this kind of thing, you had no choice _but_ to appreciate it.

The entire ball room was air conditioned so fiercely that ball gowns with layers upon layers of constricting and suffocating silk could be worn without the wearers even having thoughts of perspiring cross their minds, and yet there were waitresses serving drinks in bikinis out on the high-leveled pool, where the air conditioning still somehow reached. The lighting was dim and musty, a sort of atmosphere one would find in a single-windowed attic at dusk.

There were no speakers in sight, and yet the music rumbled through the floor, the walls, the ceiling, shaking the chandeliers—custom-made just for tonight. Dancing socialites filled the center of the room while tables full of conversing, flirting, eating, drinking socialites lined the perimeter. Numerous doors to men and women's lounges, and private rooms ready for use bordered the walls, with keys hanging from their doorknobs.

Long tables of food and wine and chocolate fountains were spread throughout the area close to the entry way, where a grand staircase led up to the upper dance floor, more private rooms and lounges, and the hot tub on the balcony. A black carpet, sharply contrasting with the white marble floor, rolled in from the double-door entrance—socialites traipsed in laughing and tipsy, most likely from a pre-party outing, all the while shrugging off the bright disorienting flashes of the reporters nested outside.

Kurogane had to admit that his favorite thing about Seishiro's events was that the security was always grade A+ tight. There was nothing more irritating than trying to slug down a drink or five while cameras and microphones were centimeters away from your nose.

"Enjoying yourself?" Fai inquired, smiling.

Kurogane grunted.

"That's nice." The violinist took a sip out of his champagne flute and raised an eyebrow, looking up at the athlete from the corner of his blue eye. "Maybe you'd enjoy it more if you went and talked to Mioru."

Kurogane peered down irritably at Fai. "You already made me talk to Sakurazuka when we got here and apologize for breaking his furniture when I didn't even actually break it. I don't think I can _that_ and talk to Mioru all in one night without doing something that's going to cost a lot of money to the police."

Fai said nothing.

"'Sides, I _already_ talked to Mioru, remember? And since that went so great, let's not try it again."

The violinist shrugged, and said condescendingly in the exact tone that Kurogane _knew_ Fai knew he hated to hear, "Did you think that one talk would make everything better?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Fai smiled into his drink, pink lips curving up. "You miss him."

"I have you. 'S all I need," Kurogane grumbled into his own glass.

"As sweet as that is, Kuro-rin, I'm not all you _want_." Fai looked up at him knowingly.

"How the hell would you know?" His voice was unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Things would be a lot easier for me and Mokona if you just admitted that you miss Mioru and that you want him back."

Kurogane looked down at Fai abruptly, indignant and close to outraged. "The hell's the fucking bunny got to do with this? And I'm supposed to want him back as _what_ exactly? What _is _he?" His voice broke through an octave or two.

"Your best friend," Fai flashed him a blinding grin. "What else?"

"Seriously," the martial artist's heart thumped unevenly, "Die."

Fai suddenly swept in front of Kurogane, bodies front-to-front against each other, and the musician's thin arms around the athlete's neck. Blond hair fell against a white collar as blue eyes were tipped up to gaze into Kurogane's red ones. "Why's it so hard to say that you miss him?" Fai asked quietly, smile soft and solemn.

"Because it's better that he doesn't know that," Kurogane muttered after a long pause. "He hates me anyway. He said that he never wants to see me again."

Fai raised both eyebrows. "Since when do you and Mioru every say what you mean?"

The martial artist looked away, busying himself with calming his heartbeat by inhaling in and out of Fai's hair. He felt Fai's fingers follow his jaw line from his ear to his chin.

"Look past my left shoulder, all the way across the ball room," Fai whispered, smiling once again.

Kurogane did. And he saw Mioru, leaning by himself against the wall, staring into his drink and looking hot (as always) in an open-faced suit with an upturned collar to let slip just enough hint of muscle leading down from his throat. "If this for my own good—"

"It is."

Kurogane loosened his grip on Fai, scowling. "Fluorite—"

Fai touched the martial artist's arm as he was leaving, and smiled deviously. "I'll owe you tonight if it makes you feel better."

"Big time, Fluorite."

"A blow," Fai said simply.

Kurogane looked back out at Mioru, beautiful eyes morose and almost empty. He looked back at another set of eyes just as beautiful, and to him, twice as captivating. "Three."

Fai seemed to be debating within himself and then, "Two but I'll top."

Kurogane folded his arms, squinting. "You lube yourself, too?"

The violinist grinned. "Deal."

* * *

Through the years, Mioru had learned that as a socialite's age and income increased the fun that he or she could have at a party decreased. There even came a time when they were no longer called parties—they were called balls or galas or benefits. For socialites, the best time of your life was from age thirteen to age twenty-two—the age when _normal_ civilians were just beginning to move out of their parents' homes and legally drink.

After those nine short years of drinking, drugging, and having unlimited and uninhibited sex, there came a time when all socialites had to put up their bongs and thongs and accept the fact that they would no longer be able to dance on bars or have sex against an oversized fichus.

At the age Mioru was at, the only dancing that could be done (and that was if it was a dance-appropriate event at all) was to semi-classical music, and any other type of dancing would have to be done at a club through Mioru's own time and money (and risk of having the paparazzi stalk him). Which was probably why after the age of twenty-two, socialites stopped throwing house parties (because it was a whole other story if it wasn't your parents' house, and thus, not your parents' paid maid that cleaned up the vomit and disposable condoms) and began frequenting clubs.

Plus, at clubs, you could throw up all you want in the bathrooms, and it still wouldn't be your maid that had to deal with it.

And furthermore, one of the greatest downsides to these grown-up socialite events was that because there were no drugs to encourage the drinking, and all the wine being served was either a hundred years old anyhow or too prissy to even make you tipsy enough so that the ceiling was wearing a hat, everyone was, for the most part, sober.

Mioru had never been fond of sober people in large amounts. In fact, he'd never recalled ever being fond of talking to other people while sober either. And as he caught sight of Kurogane hulking toward him with an embarrassed scowl on his face (and Fai's pretty smirk also directed at the soccer player from across the room), he'd never wanted to be drunk this badly.

So he chose the next best thing.

"Watanuki," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. The goalie raised an eyebrow behind his glasses and leaned in towards Mioru, until their cheeks were almost touching.

"Yes?"

"Talk to me so Kurogane will walk away." Mioru glanced up at Watanuki pleadingly. "I'll owe you for this, I swear. You won't have to talk in the next off-season interview we have if you do this for me."

His teammate appraised him with those new eyes (eyes that'd changed so much since Mioru had first met him—since Mioru had first reconciled with him for what happened after they played each other for the first time in college, Sabakurein versus Kuriakiri), and smiled. "Why don't you talk to him?" Watanuki pointed indiscreetly at Seishiro's assistant, Senryuu, who was standing by himself just feet away, leaning against the same wall Mioru and Watanuki were.

Mioru narrowed his eyes, bewildered and irritated. "Why _would_ I? He already thinks I'm a lunatic as it is."

The goalie's sight wandered away for just seconds before returning to Mioru's, still smiling eerily and in a way that made Mioru almost shamefully wish that he'd gone through with what he'd set out to do in that locker room all those years ago after they first played each other. If anything, at least he knew that Doumeki was getting it good. "Then _don't_ talk," Watanuki shrugged, his hip fitting right up against Mioru's. "We're all grown-ups, aren't we?" He turned so that he was face-to-face with the side of Mioru's head. "Kurogane's heading here and if you really don't want to talk to him, do what you have to, Mioru Aoi."

Mioru Aoi?

Who the fuck was that?

Right now, all he knew was that Mioru Aoi was the young socialite who was striding over to Seishiro Sakurazuka's assistant at a tempo brisker than the music that was thumping. Mioru Aoi was doing something that no one but the Mioru Aoi who'd never had his heart broken by Kurogane You-ou, had never wanted revenge more than his pride and let Kyle trap him would have done. Mioru Aoi was doing something that the Mioru Aoi who didn't care if he had to blackmail and rape a little girl, a goalie who used to be on his team, a violinist that had nothing to do with anything in order to raise his status would do.

Mioru Aoi was kissing Seishiro Sakurazuka's assistant on the mouth in the middle of the Japanese National soccer team's welcome ball.

And some of the team members were actually starting to applaud.

The only thing he regretted was not being able to see Kurogane's face as Senryuu yanked him through the doors of the nearest private room, slammed it shut, flicked only one of the lights on, keyed in the lock, and threw Mioru onto the bed.

* * *

___On the Upper East Side it's easy to think the world is exactly as it appears. Refined. Elegant. Imposing. But sometimes all it takes is a little key to open the door to the wild side._

___--Gossip Girl from "School Lies"_

* * *

_A/N: I told you that Unveiled would be Secrets-esque. In this chapter we not only have no angst (SO PROUD) but we have flirting! for the first time in months. AND the plot is actually moving before the tenth chapter (AGAIN SO PROUD). Now all I need to do is actually get a move on Compelled before I get too busy with school again and I'll have completed my springtime resolution. (Not really, I just don't want to feel like an update failure.) Anyhoo, I can't believe I hadn't realized till this chapter that Mioru and Watanuki are still teammates and somewhat friends even after Mioru almost raped the poor megane back in Secrets. _

_Then again, doesn't Watanuki strike you like the kind of character who wouldn't care? Probably because he's Yuuko's heir apparent? I dunno. _

_In any case, enjoy the updates while they still come, because I have a feeling that school is going to be hell again soon (and then even Rightside Reflection won't be able to speed my writing--speaking of her, she's who you have to thank for this chapter coming in so fast.)_


	9. Mutual Agreement

Chapter Seven: Mutual Agreement

_"I bet you're wondering what Gossip Girl is doing up so early. Truth is, I never went to bed. Why waste precious time dreaming when waking life is so much better?"_

___--Gossip Girl from "The Wild Brunch"_

* * *

Mioru stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, sunlight and shadows flirting together on the white plaster. If someone had asked him to count the years since he'd last had impulse sex with someone who's sexuality was completely unknown to him and started it off riskily in public, the number would add up to a little bit more than a third of his current age. Actually, Mioru hadn't had any kind of sex that often at all in the past four or so years.

Once an athlete was on the road, training and traveling, he should be thankful to even be let out to have steak and a drink without his manager and coach stalking him. Sex with a partner that you didn't know well and could potentially be bought out by the media was for athletes who wanted to end their careers five years early. And especially considering that athletes didn't have careers that lasted that long anyhow what with the reality of an aging body, Mioru wanted to keep himself on the field and off the tabloids as long as possible.

But this, this just might have his manager and his teammates and his coach and the media out to not shorten the number of days he had left in his star career, but most probably the days that he had left to breathe.

And the only good thing out of this situation was that aside from the obvious fact that he'd just had sex after about six months was that he was pretty sure it wasn't just the half-year abstinence that had made Seishiro's assistant seem like one of the best partners he'd had ever. At the very least, Mioru hadn't had to worry about the assistant being straight about two seconds after the athlete had kissed him. Because he was pretty sure that straight men weren't supposed to instantly dive their hands into another man's pants. Moreover the _back_ of another men's pants.

One more good thing about this was that Senryuu had been sober enough to somehow relocate himself and Mioru back to the assistant's apartment, which Mioru figured out by logical sense since the athlete didn't quite remember anything beyond orgasming somewhere around five times in rapid-fire succession in one of the private rooms at the party.

Then, by more logical sense, Mioru figured out that they must've had more sex after reaching Senryuu's house since he himself was naked and Senryuu was lying beside him, still sleeping, and naked.

The athlete scooted closer to the other man and propped himself up on one elbow, biting his lip thoughtfully as he looked at Senryuu's face. Seishiro really did know how to pick, didn't he? Sleeping, more than ever, Senryuu looked amazing to Mioru. There were long, dark lashes brushing against the high cheekbones that had, when Mioru first saw him, made the athlete think feral and feline. And the high cheekbones perfectly set off deep, deeply embedded eyes—closed eyes, and from the size of the eyelids, close-up, extremely round, large eyes. But of course, sleeping, the one thing missing was the silverish blue color that Mioru remembered most, glowing even in the dark, the color that Mioru had stared up into as he'd felt himself climax.

His hair was a unique shade, too, though, blackened gold, shades darker than his skin. His skin was the color of a person born fair, but had lived in the sun all his life, resulting in a warm, light gold. And Senryuu was tall. As tall as Doumeki and probably only one or one and a half inches shy of Kurogane. Not only that, Senryuu was even fitter than Mioru—Mioru, whose life was centered around running a total of ten miles on the field each day.

But as Mioru could now see Senryuu's muscles clearly, the soccer player's eyes narrowed. His coach had taught him and his team about the basics of how athletes who played different sports had different styles of muscles. For instance, a football player would have a different build and thus bulkier muscles than that of wiry soccer players. So forth and so on went for basketball players, baseball players, tennis players, etc. And for a young civilian with an office job who simply worked out to stay in shape…Senryuu didn't have muscles like that.

Mioru couldn't quite identify the type of muscles Senryuu had, but they weren't supposed to be the way they were—wiry like Mioru's, but somehow slightly more packed, and denser, and perhaps even slenderer. They looked familiar, the contours and curves…

Suddenly, Mioru was welcomed with the unearthly silver blue he'd been waiting for. "Erm," he sputtered a bit. "Good morning."

Senryuu sat up wordlessly and merely looked back, blinking those beautiful eyes that took up half his face, somewhat covered with spilled and tousled hair. "Why are you still here?"

Okay. So it wasn't like Mioru, after years upon years of doing this whole hit and run thing when it came to sleeping with people, hadn't ever come across a partner who hadn't exactly been the happiest person in the world when they'd figured out that the person who they'd slept with while in a state of slight to immense inebriation was still inside the walls of their home, and worse still, within the sheets of their bed.

But for some reason, Senryuu's tone, blank and vaguely surprised and still tainted with delicious half-awake, lazy-eyed, made Mioru's stomach drop to his ankles. Perhaps it was the fact that Mioru hadn't done the hit and run thing for a while and he was out of practice with detaching his emotions from his body after sex.

So the soccer player sighed, and started to swing his legs out from beneath the sheets. "Can I shower before I leave?" He was about to turn back to gauge Senryuu's expression, when he felt the assistant's hand grab his wrist in a surprisingly strong hold. It was Mioru's turn to blink, wide-eyed. "What?"

"You can't leave _now_," said Senryuu, voice still thick with sleep.

Mioru's eyes narrowed. "You just told me to get the fuck out and now you don't want me to _leave_?" After saying that with more force than Senryuu probably deserved, Mioru's hand immediately flew to cushion his head—suddenly ringing with a hangover he'd just noticed.

Senryuu's voice was starting to get clearer, and his expression was awakening. "Take a look out the window. That one." He pointed to the window closest to Mioru, right across from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

The athlete stood up and took the few steps that were needed in the small apartment bedroom to reach the window. He parted the blinds slightly, eyes peering through the slit. Down below, surrounding the entrance to the apartment lobby, squashing their faces against the glass, was a crowd of reporters, cameramen, interviewers, and other tabloid-associated people that Mioru really didn't want to know about.

"They followed us here," Senryuu explained quietly, standing up himself and crossing over to Mioru's side. The soccer player couldn't help but stare (just a little, mind you) at Senryuu's body, at what hung between his legs, as the assistant walked easily and coolly—felinely, was the word that once again came to his mind. "They were all asleep across the street at around four in the morning, so I thought that you'd leave by then."

Mioru looked up at him incredulously. "What part of you thinks that anyone who drank that much and got fucked that hard would be able to wake up without an alarm at four in the morning? I probably fell asleep at two, anyway."

Senryuu blinked down again. And frowned slightly. "About that," he folded his bare, pale, contoured arms, "you didn't bleed that much at all, and you can stand right now just fine, but you…well…" He tilted his head toward Mioru curiously. "You cried quite a bit. Did I hurt you?"

Ah. That.

For the second time in less than five minutes, Mioru sighed again and resituated himself on the bed, since he obviously wasn't going anywhere out of this apartment building for the next few hours. Senryuu, however, remained standing, opting to continue leaning against the windowsill. "I cried?"

"A lot."

Mioru kept silent for a moment, trying to gather up his words in the best possible way to phrase this without making himself sound like a psycho, or making Senryuu sound like a rapist, or just making everything really awkward in general—especially considering the fact that if these reporters were feeling really ambitious and push came to shove, then Mioru would probably have to ask Senryuu if he could stick it out here for a couple of days.

"When I have sex," Mioru began, forcefully restraining himself from physically cringing and shrinking, because those four words already seemed to make the air thick with awkward and sort of humiliating, "sometimes, if I feel really good, or if my partner's really good, and…erm...but only when I'm the bottom, I, erm, cry."

Senryuu was continuing to look at him with what Mioru was slowly beginning to recognize as the assistant's blankly odd and oddly blank expression, wide eyes blinking. "Yeah," Mioru echoed, just because the silence was nerving and really not all that pleasant to be wallowing in. "Just…didn't want you to think I cried because it hurt. Or anything. Yeah."

To be honest, Mioru wasn't usually this awkward, even with one-night stand partners. And especially when the one night had been mind-blowing, Mioru was normally extremely talkative, friendly, usually suggesting that they do this again and make it a multiple-night-stand.

But then, Mioru realized that Senryuu was grinning at him, teeth showing and eyes dancing. The assistant wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrows, tilting his head and in doing so, encouraged the hair to fall over his lashes again. Then he said, "That's kind of hot."

Mioru felt surprise warm his face. The awkwardness had flashed away, but something else was creeping in its place. "Oh." He cleared his throat. "It's not weird? Whenever I have sex with someone and I cry and tell them why, they think it's weird."

Senryuu shook his head casually. "_I_ don't think it is. Do _you_ think it's weird?"

"I dunno," Mioru shrugged and looked down at his lap again. "I definitely wish I knew _why_ I do it. Sometimes I wish that I didn't." This was getting bad. It wasn't like this didn't already happen more often that Mioru ever wanted it to, but he was instantly reminded of Kurogane—of times when Kurogane was furious with him, and they tried to solve it by fucking, and all it did was send the martial artist yelling at him more after the finished, and since Mioru would already be crying, the shouts would just make him cry harder, and—

"I liked it."

The athlete's head snapped up. Senryuu smiled, amused. "I liked it," he repeated. "It was kind of cute when you were trying to wipe your eyes before you fell asleep."

The surprise was heating Mioru's ears so hard that he didn't have enough composure to retaliate and lash back at Senryuu that Mioru was not cute, and if Senryuu thought the crying was hot, then that was much-appreciated, but if it was cute, then that was just out of bounds. Mioru's eyebrows furrowed. "I'm not cute."

"You're shorter then I am," Senryuu stated, with his deer-eyes and raised eyebrows again.

Mioru stood up. "What does that have to do with any shit?" He crossed the space between them in two strides and reached out to twist Senryuu's arms into pretzels. Senryuu caught his hands steadily. Their fingers interlaced, and biceps strained as strengths butted heads. Mioru was pushing and being pushed and twisting his arms this way and that and trying to maneuver Senryuu against a wall or shove him to the floor and they'd both hit the floor, wrestling bare-bodied and without restraints, before Mioru realized that his grin was bigger than Senryuu's as all this happened.

"You're so weak," Mioru gasped, trying to keep his smile off his face long enough to finish Senryuu off—the athlete was straddling him, arms trying to twist Senryuu's and pin them to the floor.

In a swift move that struck familiar chords in Mioru's unknown memory, Senryuu switched their positions, and now his body was perfectly flat on top of Mioru's, legs entwined to make sure that Mioru didn't escape. "For a pro soccer player, I think you need to work out some more," Senryuu smiled back, his voice quiet and teasing. He had Mioru's arms stretched out to full wingspan, pinned to the lightwood floor. "You can't even beat a pencil pusher."

"Seishiro would never pick anyone who just has brains. So I'm not surprised," Mioru huffed. Breathing was, for unidentifiable reasons, incredibly tiring when Senryuu's lips were moments from his own—and when those eyes were so close that Mioru felt like he was literally surrounded by their color.

Senryuu shrugged and tossed his bangs out of his eyes immaculately. "Surprised or not, you still lost. You want to make me breakfast?"

The athlete made a face.

Senryuu laughed, and suddenly stood up, and pulled Mioru to his feet as well. "Scrambled or sunny side-up?" the assistant said.

They'd only spoken for less than ten minutes, Mioru knew nothing except his name and where he lived, they'd had sex once, Mioru didn't even know if he was actually gay or bi or just really horny, Mioru didn't know what he even actually did for Seishiro. And Mioru definitely didn't know why the words, "Can we have sex again?" slipped out of his mouth.

Senryuu's eyes, as Mioru had probably thought about ten-thousand times to himself, were already larger and deeper than any normal human's, but at Mioru's question of fucking stupid, the assistant's eyes grew to take up over half of his face. "Sex?"

"As friends," was the next thing that rushed out of the soccer player's mouth. "Just as friends."

In the time Mioru needed to blink, a million things seemed to pass through Senryuu's eyes at those words, but in the time Mioru needed to blink, Senryuu had already smiled again and said, "Okay. Just as friends."

* * *

_A/N: I know I should be updating Compelled, I really do, and the new chapter is almost finished, I swear, but this was ready to go, so I thought that since it's been ages since I last updated, you guys should have SOMETHING. Plus, this gets one of the plots moving, and since Compelled isn't finished yet, it's the ONLY plot that can be moving without me spoiling things. So enjoy the first real dosage of Senryuu and Mioru, and I hope you like it since Unveiled is mainly going to be this as far as the romance department goes. _


	10. You For You

Chapter Eight: You For You

To say the least, Kurogane sort of wanted to wring Mioru into little bits of flesh before skinning those bits of flesh and then sew them together to make a skin quilt that Kurogane would incinerate by slowly roasting over a barbeque pit. Of course, currently at nine p.m., he was in no place to do so, because even though a weary-looking Mioru had just walked in, accompanied by Senryuu, Kurogane was still at Seishiro's home, and therefore, if any act resembling murder occurred at the martial artist's current location, there would probably be another murder shortly after and it would probably end with Kurogane's corpse on the shores of Ellis Island.

Besides, it wasn't like Kurogane had been waiting for Mioru since four in the afternoon just to yell at him for missing his first day of off-season training, even though the martial artist had no association with the national Japanese team at all. But since Kurogane was here and had been here for the previous five hours, so adamant on staying to the point where Fai got bored and skipped away with Mokona, he might as well get some yelling in, right?

As Mioru threw his suit jacket and his mask onto the sofa where Kurogane sat at the other end of, the martial artist caught the shadows under the soccer player's eyes, his rumpled hair, and how his steps seemed to drag. Subaru was with Kamui at the hotel that the writer and Fuuma were staying at, while Fuuma himself had decided to join in on the weight training with the other soccer players even though it wasn't his off-season and this wasn't his team. This meant that it was just Seishiro left to stand between Kurogane and pummeling both Mioru and the creepy kid who used to be in Kurogane's martial arts class—the one who used to have a creepy crush on Mioru.

The shout and yell within Kurogane were ready to come out, he had stinging remarks, and angry scolds prepared to aim at Mioru, but for some reason, when he stood up and Mioru turned his head to look up at him with resigned, tired eyes, all that came out of Kurogane's mouth was, "Where were you?"

"He was at Senryuu's," Seishiro said before Mioru could reply. Taking advantage of the Maestro's inability to keep his mouth fucking closed, the soccer player continued past Kurogane, Senryuu, and the conductor, and went to get a water bottle from the refrigerator. "And predictably, paparazzi closed in on them, and now Yuuto Kigai is on my ass because the New York media has already started throwing water balloons about this to the Japanese media." To punctuate this statement and the apparent tragedy of getting one's ass bothered by Yuuto Kigai, Seishiro threw a Look at Senryuu, who was standing perfectly still and creepily as one of those British soldiers with caterpillars for hats.

"I fucking know that," Kurogane snapped. What he didn't know and was afraid to know was why Mioru wanted to avoid him so badly that the soccer player would just go ahead and have sex with some random (creepy) guy that he'd only known for about three days. But this wasn't exactly something he wanted to ask in front of the aforementioned random (creepy) guy, the Maestro, and Mioru himself. Especially not when Mioru looked so worn out and ready to lash out at the first thing that moved to close to him.

And apparently, even though Kurogane was meters away from him, Mioru still wanted to lash out at the martial artist, because as the soccer player screwed the water bottle cap closed, he said scathingly, "Then what do you want to know, Kurogane?"

"Maybe why you decided to risk your whole fucking career in one night because you were too much of a pussy to fucking talk to me."

The expression that slapped onto Mioru's face was couldn't be described in words.

Kurogane swore that half of that sentence hadn't even come out the way he wanted it to, while the other half wasn't supposed to have come out at all. In the corner of his eye, he saw Seishiro close his eyes and sigh. It would've irritated him more were he given the time, but right after saying that goddamn sentence, he suddenly heard—

"Wouldn't a pussy be someone who attacks a person who's exhausted from hiding out for an entire day and hasn't slept for over twelve hours?"

His fist was aching to punch something, but he was aching more to spit at Senryuu how he'd been creeping over Mioru since they were in high school, and it was probably all of the stupid creeper's fucking wet dreams come true to finally be able to sex Mioru up like that. "This is none of your business," Kurogane ground out.

"I had sex with him, didn't I?" Senryuu continued calmly in a manner that made it too obvious how he was probably the only person who had enough mental defiance to withstand being Seishiro's business partner.

Kurogane's eyes narrowed at Senryuu, but he slid his gaze back toward Mioru, who was still frozen against the kitchen countertop. The soccer player's eyes were averted, aimed downward and away from Kurogane—his fingers were tightly clasped against the granite surface, knuckles starting to white.

Still Senryuu went on, "Leave him alone."

"That's enough Senryuu," Seishiro said dangerously. The Maestro met eyes with Kurogane. "You should go. Talk to Mioru later."

Kurogane was Kurogane. And there were few things and even fewer people who could make him do something that was out of his intentions. Senryuu and Seishiro weren't one of those few people. However, the one whom sienna golden eyes belonged to, eyes that belied ten-thousand apologies and confusions as they met Kurogane's, the one whom those eyes belonged to was

.

____

* * *

_Some might call this a fustercluck, but on the Upper East Side, we call it Sunday afternoon._

_-Gossip Girl from "The Wild Brunch"_

* * *

Mioru once again didn't quite know what the hell he was doing or what the hell he should have done or even what the hell he was supposed to be doing. He just knew that his chest had started contracting, and there were threads as sharp as steel being whipped around his heart, digging into the flesh and bleeding it dry drop by drop.

All he knew was that he'd just watched Kurogane throw him a betrayed expression that was all-too familiar than Mioru would have ever wanted it to be. But nothing hurt more than the sound of the elevator doors closing as Kurogane left once again because Mioru couldn't ever not be an asshole—because Mioru spoke before he thought, and rather than letting words come out of his mouth, he let the frustration built from the paparazzi come out instead.

Quietly, Seishiro said, as he started to head downstairs, "I have to pick up Subaru. Senryuu, lock my study up and spot check all the weight rooms before you go." After receiving his assistant's nod of affirmation, the conductor jogged down the stairs.

The athlete looked at Senryuu. "Thanks for trying to make me seem like less of a jackass in front of Kurogane. I'm sorry he dumped my shit on you."

Senryuu's eyebrows creased and he crossed the living room in a few strides, coming to stand and rest his elbows on the opposite side of the countertop, watching Mioru's expression intently. "You give yourself too much credit."

"For what?" Mioru's eyes tightened in confusion.

"Being a jackass," Senryuu answered simply. "Or an asshole, or whatever you like to call yourself."

The frustration and irritation that had developed from being rubbed the wrong way by the paparazzi and morning tabloids was starting to resurface and bubble dangerously. "I don't like to be a jackass and an asshole," Mioru said, eyes narrowing. "I don't know if you've noticed, but after you get out of high school, it's not so hot to be known as a prick, who doesn't do anything except fuck things up."

"I never said you did." Senryuu's voice was still completely quiet—soft. "I meant that you seem to believe you're a jackass because Kurogane makes you out as one."

For some reason, this made Mioru furious. He didn't know if it was exhaustion or lack of sleep or just the trying day in general, but Senryuu speaking as though he knew even a quarter of what bullshit Mioru had put Kurogane through during the years that Kurogane was supposed to have enjoyed, playing the field without any care for relationships—for some reason, this made Mioru lose whatever ounce of self-control he had left.

"I let you fuck me for a day and you fucking think you can fucking cut into my fucking life by making the fucking person I love fucking hate me even more!" Mioru screamed.

Senryuu's face remained expressionless—not a single crease between his eyebrows, not a single spark of irritation or anger in his eyes.

The lack of reaction just fed the fire. It fed the fire that had already been licking dangerously at the surface anyhow, and now that it was being fed, the fire was too big, too hot, was too far widespread, and then Mioru was rounding the countertop to punch Senryuu in the stomach.

Mioru had expected Senryuu to easily block the punch, or dodge, or at least punch back—after the mock-wrestling they'd done at the associate's apartment, Mioru knew Senryuu was strong, stronger than Mioru himself and taller, more muscular, too. But Mioru hadn't expected, hadn't prepared, for Senryuu simply staggering a bit before looking at the athlete through his bangs.

Senryuu was no longer expressionless, but with the expression on his face, Mioru would have rather he remained emotionless. The assistant had this sort of soft determination written his eyes—determination to do what, Mioru wasn't sure of, but it looked like it had something to do with withstanding Mioru's jackass-ness, and Mioru didn't want anyone to ever have to bother trying to be around the soccer player.

"Are we friends?" Senryuu asked quietly, kindly.

Mioru collapsed to the ground and had his forehead against his knees before he'd realized that he'd burst into frustrated tears. It was everything that had been culminating this summer, and this summer was a culmination itself of avoiding Kurogane for the past few years, and tonight was the breaking point—Mioru couldn't pull through any further by just dragging the shoddily hastily-glued pieces. In his heart he knew that it was time he took the pieces apart and glued them together with something that would keep them together permanently.

"I really love him," Mioru said into his knees, voice suffocating and thick with huffing breaths. "And I want to stop."

Wordlessly, Senryuu sat down beside him. He didn't touch Mioru, didn't question Mioru. He simply started to speak, almost as if he was speaking to himself. "In high school, I liked this boy. He was a year older than me, so I don't think he ever knew me, and I didn't really know him. I don't think we ever even talked."

Mioru hiccupped once and swiped at his tears with an arm.

"And this boy had a boyfriend," Senryuu continued. "And his boyfriend did the same sport as I did, so we did know each other. His boyfriend didn't like me, and I don't think I liked him either. Maybe because I was jealous, maybe because I just didn't like him—I don't know. But this boy and his boyfriend were equal amounts happy and equal amounts fighting all the time. The boyfriend would be stomping into practice yelling and screaming one day, and he'd be completely horny and fine the next. And whether it was before, after, or sometimes even during practice, this boy would always be there, waiting.

"He was so," Senryuu paused. By this time, Mioru had closed his eyes to listen, focusing on evening his breaths to the calm pace of Senryuu's soft voice. "He was so alive—he was a jerk sometimes, I admit, but he was so loud, always swearing and jumping around—jumping on his boyfriend, running around and laughing. He was always moving—he was just really alive, and a lot of things that I wasn't."

Mioru knew how the story went. It was how all these stories went. "But he didn't love you back—he didn't even know you. So what, drugs?"

"Sex," Senryuu's smile was almost sheepish. "I did it with…well, I wasn't a whole fan of doing it with any breathing organism within reach, so I did it with one person—you know, as friends."

Mioru snorted a bit. "Like what we're going to do?"

"You could say that."

"It sucks though, doesn't it?" The athlete ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. "At least the boyfriend of this kid was a bastard—that way at least you didn't have to deal with seeing them happy together. Without you."

Senryuu tilted his head back thoughtfully. "Is it really better, though? Really? Seeing them happy hurt, but seeing them fight made it hurt more for me—knowing that if he was with me, if he'd just picked me, I could give him so much better."

"But he didn't know you," Mioru pressed. "If someone doesn't know you, you don't have a fucking chance because you didn't give them a chance. If he'd known you, I bet he would have loved you."

The associate looked amused now, eyes sad, but face amused. He bumped his shoulder into Mioru's gently. "Maybe."

"Do you know where they are now? Or if they're even still together?"

"I definitely know they're not together. As for where they are," Senryuu tossed his bangs out of his eyes. "They're around, I guess."

Mioru wrinkled his nose. "That's vague and unnecessary. If you don't want to tell me, don't. I've got enough fucking drama as it is. Although I can't say that I'm surprised—everyone who's got anything to do with the Maestro always ends up being fucked up one way or another. And if they're not, they will be." A thought formed in Mioru's head, and his eyebrows puckered slightly. He looked up at Senryuu. "Speaking of which, it's obvious you really don't like Seishiro, so how come you work for him?"

Senryuu smiled faintly. "You're not going to ask why I don't like him? That's usually how it goes in conversations."

"I already know why," Mioru said. "It's Seishiro. Isn't that already a reason?"

The assistant threw back his head and grinned, kicking the athlete's leg. "Go get some sleep. Seishiro's going to hang you from the rafters if you don't start training seriously tomorrow."

"Bright and fucking early," Mioru sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He watched Senryuu stand up and said, "Thanks for listening to me whine for the like the fifth time today. It feels like all I've done in front of you since I met you is cry—and bitch. Lots."

Senryuu shrugged. "Your job reflects who you are—and I'm an associate, an assistant, what have you. So it's what I do. Listening to you is ten times better than following Seishiro around with a shitload of papers and a pen."

Mioru squinted. "It's because you get to fuck me, isn't it?"

Senryuu laughed. "Yeah. That's it."

* * *

Senryuu's fingers lingered on the lock to the second to last weight room—the lower body room. One of his hands was in his pocket. It'd only been a crush—an obsessive crush, but just a crush. His parents hadn't been anything but life supporters and he hadn't felt like bothering to make an effort to make friends. So it'd only been a crush, because like Mioru had said, if you had never talked to the person, there was nothing to like about them after face value.

So it'd just been a crush, and now it was probably budding friendship.

After Mioru had trotted off to his room, Senryuu had commenced the chore of checking up all the weight and training rooms and securing them with locks from Seishiro's master box of locks—all of which were numbered and had their combinations recorded in Seishiro's master book of lock combinations. And both of these master objects were kept by Senryuu because Seishiro neither had the time nor apparently the patience to deal with anything outside of Subaru.

Literally.

But in all honesty, Senryuu respected Seishiro to a certain degree—just not enough to work for the Maestro. The reason that backed up the respect, the reason that Senryuu did work for the Maestro resided in Subaru. Senryuu had always found it beyond curious and immensely intriguing that Subaru could love Seishiro after all Seishiro had done to the trumpeter. Although Senryuu knew that he wasn't the only one who wondered even to this day, definitely, but he felt like he might be one of the only ones who gave credit rather than incredulousness in Subaru's regard.

Senryuu picked up the box of locks and walked down to the next door—the final weight room, the upper body room.

He pulled the handle open and was preparing to peer through the darkness for the light switch, but the lights were already on. Not only were they on, there was someone still in this room, and this someone was working out—quite vigorously, too.

If Senryuu remembered right, this young man had been in the same year as Mioru, and a year older than Senryuu. The young man had sweat beading his face and his shirtless body, soaking his hair to his forehead. He was facing the door, and the moment that Senryuu let the door snap to a close behind him, the young man reached into the pocket of his mesh shorts and pulled out a pair of glasses, pushing them briskly onto his face.

The young man was about the same stature type as Mioru—same muscle-type, too. They were both lean and wiry, the kind of muscles that Senryuu remembered were labeled almost feminine with high school sports. Not that Senryuu didn't know that soccer players didn't have to look like they were on steroids and that Mioru was quite strong with his body. The young man was pale, though, and his abs were even slenderer than Mioru's, delicate-looking shoulders and waist slightly curved—his waist was so thin that the shorts looked like a single movement would shimmy them off.

The young man spoke first, smiling. "Good evening."

"'Evening," Senryuu replied reflexively.

"Sorry about this," the athlete gestured around at the room. "I'll be out as soon as I pack up."

Senryuu leaned against the wall. "That's okay. I'm not in a hurry."

The young man smiled again, one eyebrow going up. "Really? I would think you'd be eager to get home and go to bed. With the day you've had?"

The assistant blinked. "What day did I have?"

"A busy one, right? What with having my captain in your bed all night and all day, and then having that heartfelt talk with him just now? Is your stomach all right by the way? He's no match for a martial artist, but Mioru's pretty strong as it is, isn't he?" The young man's smile was slightly frightening now—but dangerously intriguing.

Or perhaps Senryuu simply found it frightening and intriguing because he'd always found socialites like this young man frightening and intriguing—the way they seemed to know everything without having to see anything. "Mioru came to me," he said quietly. "At the party."

The athlete dabbed at his perspiring forehead with the towel hanging around his neck. "I know. Everyone knows. What about it?"

The assistant felt a prickle of humiliation—the kind that wasn't unfamiliar because it seemed that no matter how close his origin was to them, Senryuu never fit in with socialites and irritation, misery, and humiliation were always the three primary feelings that engulfed him whenever he was around them.

He'd never been able to figure out why, but a great part of him suspected that it was because socialites were either trained or simply inherited the gift of being well versed in word play that could end someone's life—or make someone want to end their life his or herself. And even though he was a socialite by blood, he'd never been able to master that—he couldn't even speak well in normal terms.

So he tried not to speak much at all.

Senryuu shook his head, eyes directed at the floor. "Nothing."

The young man was pulling a shirt over his body and folding his towel and work-out gloves into the duffel bag. He shuffled his hand around in his damp hair, getting the bangs out of his eyes and crossed through the room to stand squarely in front of Senryuu. The top of the athlete's head went to just below Senryuu's chin. "Be careful," the young man said softly. He brushed past Senryuu and the door snapped shut after him.

Senryuu flicked off the lights.

* * *

_I hear that W is getting bitchier and bitchier these days, and I don't think it's because D's stamina has improved. And maybe bitchier isn't even the right way to describe it—maybe W is growing up. Maybe he's already grown up._

_Maybe the Maestro should give a little thought about following suit._

_After all, there's only so many decades you can go, dragging on the sexy immature act as your style before it gets old and the people around you get tired of putting up with it._

_And about M hooking up with the Maestro's water boy—_

_Um…_

_So?_

_High school and college weren't that long ago, babes. And in those days, M hooking up with some no-namer would've been equivalent to another scorching afternoon in Egypt. It happened every day back then, so I personally don't see the excitement in it happening now. And if any of you, my butterflies, out there do happen to see what's so invigorating about this news, please don't bother to try explaining it to me._

_It'd be like trying to explain why you want your bullets to be faster than your opponent's._

_-bWitch_

___

* * *

_

**A/N: **Um...when I was little, and I got a new toy, I'd always put all my attention on it and take it everywhere and play with (only) it all the time. But then after the new-ness wore off, I played with it like any other of my toys. Just because I played with it more at first didn't mean I loved my other toys (Compelled, Impulse ;_;) any less or that I forgot about them. Unveiled is just new, and so are Mioru and Senryuu and the other two are at the stage where I have to really be thinking when I'm writing them because of lots of plot maneuvering. So whenever you see your email light up and the update is Unveiled (yet again), I hope you don't ever get the inkling that I won't finish two of the most pivotal parts of the series. ;_;


	11. Follow the Leader

Chapter Nine: Follow the Leader

Mioru awoke to Doumeki's stony shadow hovering over him at what was probably a few hours before the sun rose. He blinked his eyes blearily one or two times and strained to see through the semi-darkness. Doumeki flicked on the lights, and Mioru saw that he was holding a cup of piping hot coffee in one hand and a bottle of Tylenol in another. "This," Mioru said hoarsely, still trying to whip his equilibrium into existence, "is unnecessarily creepy. What's up with the Tylenol?"

"For your headache."

"I'm not hung over." Mioru propped himself up on one elbow, eyes continuing in their struggle to open more than a quarter of their usual size. "I don't have a headache."

"You will," Doumeki replied simply. "Watanuki doesn't want you to stop the workout in the middle of the day when you get your headache. So take two of these now and then two more an hour or two after the lunch break." He tossed the small bottle into Mioru's blanketed lap, and then set the coffee on the nightstand. "And drink this."

Mioru peered into the mug. "This is black."

Doumeki blinked.

"Can I have, like, sugar and milk?"

Doumeki blinked again.

Mioru sighed. "Dieting, are we? Got it." He rubbed his hands through his hair, somehow grateful that it was only inches tall because of the regulation buzz that he had to have annually. He'd always hated the first few months after the buzzing date, because having nearly no hair wasn't the greatest feeling, especially when Mioru, ever since he could remember and nowadays too, had always been regarded for the unique color of his hair, and the shiny, liquid, almost feminine way the strands grew on him if it was any more than a few inches long.

To have to have that all buzzed off had been slightly depressing the first time he'd gone through it. But after a few years, and after finding out that once it was allowed to grow back a few centimeters or so, rather than falling all over his eyes and face and making him look androgynous, it stuck up on end, sometimes overlapping and tousled, and Mioru personally thought it was rather sexy that way. It could be his own personal bias, but at the very least, he was pleased with the fact that he no longer could be mistaken for a girl from the back. Or the front. Sometimes.

Maybe if Yuuto wasn't so adamant and retarded in this dieting thing, Mioru could actually gain meat and his muscles would expand and that way he would definitely not be mistaken for a girl. Although, the real problem was his face, and that wasn't going to go away.

His face had given him more trouble than it was worth (only not really, because Mioru did acknowledge that his appearance was probably the only thing his parents ever did right for their son), particularly the first time he joined the soccer team in middle school—in the locker rooms both before and after practice. Even when Syaoran got in, he hadn't been harassed nearly as much as Mioru. And with Syaoran it'd been different harassment.

With Syaoran, it'd been the whole usual initiation type deal, getting water bombed and so on. But with Mioru, it'd been asking him if he had a dick, asking him if he could only come if he was ass-fucked, only some of the wording wasn't so articulate. The harassment had been the worst for the first day, during changing before practice. It'd been before they'd seen Mioru play—before they had seen _how_ he could play.

Although, maybe after seeing him play, they all had just gotten more incentive to torture him. His hair had been long back then, almost to his shoulders, and they would tug at it. They would aim for his thighs, just underneath his ass, and whip him with the towels. They would touch him here and there and if he blushed, if he reacted, they'd hoot and holler and high-five each other.

If it hadn't been for Syaoran, Mioru probably would've quit soccer just to get away from them.

"Watanuki already woke up everyone else," Doumeki went on, deadpan. "So you should get up. They're waiting."

Mioru glared as best he could with eyes that honestly refused to open fully. "Are you like our new robo-maid or something? This is seriously fucking creepy. If Watanuki's assigned you to be our psycho babysitter for the off-season, I'm going to go off my rocker and then we'll all be screwed."

"Sakurazuka's assistant is your babysitter for the off-season," Doumeki interjected expressionlessly. "I'm going to Ellis Island with Kunogi."

Mioru's eyebrow furrowed, utterly lost and perplexed at the general existence of Shizuka Doumeki. "Why?"

"Because she invited me to go out and play," was the monotone response.

There was nothing Mioru could do any more but sigh at this point. A conversation that lasted more than the usual greetings with Doumeki was an achievement already. "That's…fantastic. Really. I'll…I guess I'll just get up and shower now."

"All right."

Mioru watched Doumeki leave his room, and the soccer captain launched himself face forward back into bed. If things continued like this, he felt like he could down the entire bottle of Tylenol. It wasn't like Mioru didn't like Doumeki. Mioru had always liked Doumeki lots.

Yeah.

Even if they hadn't exactly been friends because although they were both insane, Doumeki was a different brand of insane than Mioru, they had still been teammates and regardless of the fact that Doumeki played for a different team in a completely different league, Mioru still felt like his captain—like he was responsible for the things Doumeki did, for the things that happened to Doumeki, and for the directions Doumeki's life went.

But for that, it wasn't just Doumeki that Mioru felt that way about. Nearly all of the soccer players in their generation, the wave that had come over in Japan's soccer teams during the sequential years of graduations that even the media had excitedly recognized, had been under Mioru, even if most of them were older than him and hadn't been captained by him for their entire high school career.

And as he'd watched them graduate before him, within, and after him, going on either to the national team to play for their country, or different regional teams to play for their prefectures, he always felt like he had a certain duty towards them, an obligation that wasn't really an obligation because it didn't feel like a chore at all. To put it simply, it was probably closest to a one-sided brotherhood.

The one-sided part came into play because Mioru knew that even though he was always captain for a reason, it wasn't for the reasons that any of his teammates had actually liked. When it came to captaining for high school and half of college, it was more slave-driving than anything else, and the coaches liked that.

For high school, Captain Aoi, Mioru knew very well, was probably the biggest, strictest, hypocritical hardass of a captain in all of Japan's high school teams, soccer or not. He'd regulate their alcohol take-ins, easily suspending them or benching them whenever they failed the breather tests before practices, while he himself never had to test and drank himself retarded every night.

In high school, he'd also keep watch on their social lives, pictures of them at parties, goings-on at parties, who they hooked up with and who they went out with, and if by some whim of his, he hadn't liked a particular social chess move they made, it'd been suspension. All the while, he himself had had more than a few public temper tantrums because of Kurogane, and numerous other social mishaps that'd been detrimental to the team.

When he'd made the team run laps in the rain, sleet, snow, he himself had sat under the hood of the bleachers, most often making out with Kurogane, or huddling in the martial artist's warmth. Whenever he'd been angry with Kurogane for one thing or another, the entire practice had been extended by two hours, completely disregarding the fact that not everyone's stamina overcame human boundaries when they were angry.

Up until the Kyle Thing in college, that'd been basically how his captaining skills had gone. If Mioru felt like life was fucking with him, then he would fuck with the team. If things were peachy keen for Mioru, then they were peachy keen for the team.

And maybe it was because of all of that that he felt as though he had to still be their captain, even when he wasn't their captain. He just felt like he owed something to them so that even if one of the remoter members of his past teams suddenly called him up with a request whether it was borrowing money or asking for a ride, Mioru would comply with however far he could go.

Though he knew that the climax of his decision to then on take care of his teammates, whether current or ex, was after he realized what he'd actually done to Watanuki during the Kyle Thing. When he'd realized after Watanuki had seen him in the hospital that he hadn't just done it to anyone, he'd done it to his teammates—a teammate that he'd _captained_ over.

Most times, Mioru thought that it'd have been so much better if someone else had been captain. He never really did, to this day, understand why he'd always been chosen. There were far more apt candidates—Touya, he'd always thought, was probably the best choice, though Syaoran was just as good. Watanuki would've been a prime candidate too, were it not for the fact that Mioru knew the goalie liked working behind-the-scenes better.

He swung his legs onto the floor and stood up, arching his back and stretching. He tugged his boxers down a bit from where they'd ridden up during the night and pulled his shirt off. Often, he'd considered just getting used to sleeping naked ever since he stopped living with his parents. It wasn't like he was going to have a significant other any time soon, and there was no point in wasting water washing pajama pants and t-shirts that he wore only to sleep.

Then again, considering that he was presently sharing a penthouse with Seishiro Sakurazuka, it wasn't exactly the greatest of times to remember that he'd always thought about sleeping naked. If he started that habit now, it'd probably just end up with Mioru's corpse in a trash bag and Subaru bent over the kitchen counter.

A lot of things concerning the Maestro seemed to end that way.

* * *

Seishiro wanted to kill someone. And the only reason he hadn't killed someone already was because his brilliant genius mind had somehow found a way to stave off the insanity that trying to figure out how to sign his own papers brought. Because Senryuu was overseeing the ball-kicking brats, and since the orchestra wasn't performing for the next few months, Subaru was playing secretary for Seishiro and although the trumpeter thought that Senryuu had gone too easy on the conductor by sifting through everything for him, at least Seishiro could enjoy the view of Subaru trying to clean out the file cabinets.

Subaru wasn't an actual employee so he didn't have to wear a suit, meaning he was in khaki board shorts and a light green button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. And because the Sumeragi twins and the Fluorite twins had a mutual policy of never wearing belts (mostly because their pants were always tight enough without them), Seishiro was able to ease his mind with the sight of Subaru's shorts riding down when the trumpeter filed the low drawers, and then the sight of Subaru's shirt riding up when he filed the top drawers.

It was a rather win-win situation as far as Seishiro's opinion went.

At least, it was until Subaru turned around every hour or so and asked if the conductor was done yet because the trumpeter was starting to get hungry and wanted to see Kamui for lunch since it wasn't like his brother visited New York all the time and didn't Seishiro want to see Fuuma, too?

Seishiro, just for anyone's information, would never say or hint or do anything that would ever imply that he didn't love his younger brother, because he loved his baby brother to death—or at least very close to it, because the conductor had always thought of himself as someone who would rather die than die. And this made sense.

It did.

He insisted.

"Are you done yet?" Subaru twisted around again, tossing his bangs out of his eyes—just like Fai and Kamui, after college the trumpeter had started cutting his hair shorter because being mistaken for a girl was only attractive for so long, but then, just like Fai and Kamui, the trumpeter forgot about getting it cut more often than usual, and now the ends were starting to touch the tips of his ears, and the hairline at his neck.

In Seishiro's opinion, (and probably Kurogane's and Fuuma's), all three of them should just give up on trying not to look like a girl because it wasn't like cutting their hair shorter was going to alter the structure of their faces and bodies, and plus, when their hair was short, there was nothing to hold on to—nothing to pull their head back with when you wanted to kiss them while you—

Yeah.

"I think I'm going to kill myself," Seishiro said. "No, fuck that—I'm already dead, and it's your fault."

Subaru blinked. "I think you look rather alive." The trumpeter tilted his head. "And horny. Are you thinking about something bad again?"

"If by bad you mean getting horny off of the fact that your hair's finally fucking growing out again because I never understood why you, your insane brother, and Fai decided to start shearing it off your heads like bodybuilders."

Subaru looked amused. "We didn't shear it off. We just cut it a little closer. And just because we're gay doesn't mean we're not guys—we still _like_ looking like we have a Y chromosome. Besides, it's not so fun to be twenty-plus and look like a girl."

"It's hotter when it's long," Seishiro said, bored. "I'll be mad if you cut it again."

"Okay then," Subaru laughed. "I won't cut it. So get back to work."

The Maestro sighed melodramatically, leaning back in his chair languidly. "I don't want to." He raised his eyebrows significantly at Subaru. The trumpeter seemed to get the message, looking away for a moment and sighing with a smile. Subaru set the files on top of the filing cabinet.

"What _do_ you want to do, then?" Subaru asked, exasperated and teasing, as he crossed the space in between them, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants as he went. Seishiro felt his expression brighten blithely as he held his arms open for the trumpeter, sitting back further in the chair so Subaru could climb onto his lap and straddle him.

The Maestro tipped his head back and looked up into beautiful, eternal green, and flashed his teeth, eyes closing up. "What do _you_ want to do?"

Subaru's face broke into a smile as Seishiro's hands ran up and down his sides, caressing playfully. The trumpeter's face drew nearer and nearer until he was breathing into the conductor's mouth. He kissed the Maestro's lower lip, kissed the Maestro open-mouthed, tongue curling and twisting with Seishiro's.

Seishiro cupped Subaru's face with both of his hands, thumbs stroking at the hair that was touching the tops of the trumpeter's ears and should never be short again. Subaru had been sitting back on his legs, but now he straightened up on his knees so that he was an entire head above Seishiro, the trumpeter's head falling back and his eyes closing as the conductor's mouth and tongue and _teeth_ covered Subaru's neck and collarbone.

The trumpeter laced his arms around the back of Seishiro's head and shoulders, securing that the Maestro didn't stop, and closed his eyes, reveling in the wet heat that was engulfing his throat, his jaw, collarbone. The conductor's knee lifted suddenly, pressing up against Subaru's growing erection, and the trumpeter sighed, heat rushing up to his face and down to his—

_Ah_

One of Seishiro's hands was sneaking down the back of Subaru's boxer briefs, while the other was slipping down the front. Subaru grasped Seishiro's face and brought the Maestro's lips back onto his. The conductor had pulled Subaru's shorts and boxer briefs down in a gentle tug, one hand beginning to stroke while the other buried itself in the trumpeter's hair, roughly pushing Subaru's mouth onto the Maestro's throat.

The gasps, the sighs, the tell-tale moans were starting to slip readily and easily out from both of them, and Subaru felt his breath escalate as his hands instinctively began unzipping Seishiro's pants. He felt Seishiro shift abruptly beneath him as his fingers began stroking the moment he found the Maestro's—

_Burning_

Seishiro suddenly stopped, his hands wrapping around Subaru's wrists and pulling them out of the conductor's pants, replacing them onto the Maestro's shoulders and then kissing the trumpeter again—inhaling the scent of perspiration that always hung around on clothing and skin and in hair during the summer, and then Subaru's scent, the way Subaru's tongue tasted, the way the trumpeter shivered when Seishiro's tongue ran across the back of his teeth.

Subaru fell forward into the conductor's body, leaning up against him for support as Seishiro's strokes grew rapidly and the trumpeter felt his breaths turn to panting, huffing, eyes half-lidded and mouth partially open. His cheeks felt like lava was filling them and his vision was blurring and spinning with heat. He gripped Seishiro's arms tighter with his hands as he felt himself getting closer and closer and—

Someone was knocking on the door.

Seishiro ignored it, his hand moving even faster, kissing Subaru deeper and more fiercely until the trumpeter's rushing breaths gained voice to them—faster and faster and faster until Subaru started to tremble and the Maestro knew that when that began to happen all he had to do was tongue the trumpeter deep one last time and Subaru would climax, his cry stifled by Seishiro's lips.

The conductor caught Subaru as he turned putty-limp and simultaneously released a stream of white onto both he himself and Seishiro. "Come in," Seishiro said calmly, readjusting and lifting Subaru so that the trumpeter was sitting in the conductor's lap, legs draped and dangling over one of the armrests of the chair. Subaru's eyes were still half-lidded, his body, still heaving from orgasm, curled up and leaning against the Maestro, head on the Maestro's chest.

The door opened slowly and Sakura Kinomoto stepped in, the skirt of her sundress flowing around her pale legs. She pulled off her sunglasses and placed them into her hair. Seishiro was mildly surprised to see that the gymnast's expression was serious. He actually felt more surprised that she wasn't fazed about the sight she'd just walked into, but then again, considering who her brother and who her brother's lover was, he probably shouldn't be surprised.

She probably walked in on scenes like this often.

"May I help you?" he said courteously because Sakura was pretty, and Seishiro was always kind to pretty young ladies.

Especially ones with bank accounts almost as big as his.

She crossed the room steadily on heels thinner than Seishiro's finger and taller than his head. There was no smile on her face—the aura wafting from her wasn't angry, but it wasn't pleasant either. When she was directly in front of the desk, she put one hand on it, gaze looking straight into the conductor's eyes.

"Re-open Fuuka's case."

* * *

_"Sometimes, in an effort to spread the most outrageous rumors, we look over the very thing that's even more scandalous—the truth. And the only things more shocking than the truth are the lies people tell to cover it up."_

_-Gossip Girl from "All About My Brother"_

**A/N: **Remember the ultimate review whore I used to be? ;_; I never stopped being one, and now that school's over, the whole reviewing thing really will make chapters come faster, so even if it's just, like, two words or a sentence about if you want to huggle Subaru or something, go ahead and feed the review whore. T_T/e_o/^_^ Yeah.

(HEY LOOK. THE PLOT IS ACTUALLY STARTING .)

Also, you probably wouldn't have had that bit of SeishiroxSubaru if it wasn't for me splurging on StarkBlack's "Memories" fic (A ZoSan One Piece story of ) in two days and after reading it, I was glad that I read it after it was completed because if I had had to wait for it bit by bit, the insanity probably would have killed me. Not that the insanity of waiting for the sequel with Chopper, and the one-shot with Law/Kidd, AND the rest of her "Give and Take" fic doesn't already kill me.

(vicious-kitsune this is all your fault, but not really, because you got me into her)

So yeah, I just felt like promoting StarkBlack because she's amazing and makes me feel like I should go to writing camp to learn more things. ;_;


	12. Knock, Knock

Chapter Ten: Knock, Knock

Mioru collapsed onto the mercifully cold tiles of the double bathroom on the third floor of the penthouse. He and Syaoran had wandered in here after training had finished (finally, at eleven in the fucking night), while the rest of the team either decided to deal with the sweat and shower at their respective hotel suites (and Mioru knew that for some of them, like Sorata and Seiichiro, they'd probably have more than just a shower waiting for them—damn married bastards—although it probably went the same for Touya) or use the baths that were also on the third floor but at the opposite end from this double bathroom.

Syaoran probably would've also had something waiting for him in his hotel room, but that something was apparently talking to Seishiro about one matter or another. Mioru felt as though he should warn Syaoran that Sakura might not come back alive, because most people didn't when they went to talk to the Maestro alone. But as it was now, the soccer captain was too fucking tired to do anything but think about how hungry he was even though he'd stuffed himself with five filet mignons about five hours ago.

Mioru stared at the lights on the ceiling, grudgingly admitting that whether it was Seishiro or Subaru who'd decided to add this room to the penthouse, it was one of the coolest fucking ideas he'd ever seen. Although the best name Mioru could come up with it was a double bathroom, it was more like a cleaner, sleeker, mini version of a spa locker room, with two glass showers on one side and two large bathtubs at the other end.

Then again, a part of him didn't want to dwell on what Seishiro and Subaru probably used this particular _dual _bathroom _for_.

He just hoped they washed the floor and towels afterward.

Syaoran nudged Mioru's shoulder gently with his bare foot. "Don't fall asleep on me. Go shower. Then sleep like a rock." Mioru's teammate had already stripped, but he hadn't gone on into the shower yet. Syaoran was probably the only person Mioru had never hit on, whether for playing around purposes or more. It wasn't really because Mioru knew Syaoran was straighter than an arrow and Sakura was kind of fucking sexy, but more that Syaoran would turn beet red and although that was kind of cute, Mioru just loved Syaoran too much as a brother.

So hitting on Syaoran (even though Mioru had more than once silently sulked about what a waste it was for his teammate to be straight), in Mioru's mind, was kind of like hitting on his brother, or cousin, or dad.

Five hundred kinds of fucked-up.

"Baby boy," Mioru whined, turning onto his side, and almost audibly sighing in relief as the cold tiles touched his overheated cheek. "I'm so fucking tired I think you're going to have to strap me to yourself and shower both of us together."

Syaoran looked somewhat mortified, but mostly weary and amused. "Hurry up. You know, Senryuu can't leave until we're all gone, and that means you, too. Only in your case, it just means that you're in the Land of Nod. Yuuto was so pissed when he found out—you weren't there to hear him over Seishiro's cell phone on speaker."

"Good," Mioru sat up slowly. "I don't need the nightmares."

His teammate laughed, crouching and holding out a hand. "Get up."

Mioru took Syaoran's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet, and then shoved Syaoran away, grinning. "I missed you so damn fucking much, baby boy."

Syaoran smiled back. "You, too. Even though it's only been like, a month at the most."

The soccer captain stuck out his tongue, as he shed his clothes and tossed them near the sink. "That's still pretty damn long. Especially for a lonely, unwanted bachelor like me."

Even though Mioru's tone had been purely playful, Syaoran's expression furrowed slightly. "Speaking of which…" He tilted his head indicatively, eyes concerned as they watched Mioru study the knobs, figuring out how to turn on the shower and adjust the temperature. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I have to stop moping over Kurogane and get my fucking life together," Mioru said quietly. "Not much to talk about."

"It's going _that_ great, huh?" Syaoran said, with a tiny hint of sarcasm, but his tone still mostly reflected the concern and worry on his face.

Mioru turned around and sat on top of the closed toilet seat across the showers. He looked up at Syaoran, who was leaning on the wall. "When I avoid him, try to keep my space, I end up thinking about him because he isn't there. When he's there and I hang out with him, I think about how if I hadn't been such a jackass, he'd be next to me like this all the time."

"And you've tried talking to him?"

Mioru snorted. "Seishiro has the furniture replacement bills to prove it." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his sweat-beaded face. "The talking thing…I know it was my fault definitely, but I don't think the whole idea was too hot for him either. Fai wants him to try and make things right, but I don't think Kurogane gets it."

Syaoran remained silent, his brown eyes starting to gain a thoughtful sheen to them. Mioru loved every part of Syaoran, but whenever that look glazed across his teammate's face, Mioru knew that the do-gooder beast within was beginning to rouse itself, and would start preparing to sink it's do-gooder claws into whatever Syaoran thought was bothering Mioru.

"It's all right," Mioru said finally, standing up, and sliding one of the shower doors open. "He's probably still pissed and until he cools down, nothing you can say to him is going to help. He'll just beat you up, regardless of the fact that you're a year older than him."

Syaoran bumped his shoulder against Mioru's as the captain turned on the shower and closed the door. He smiled through the glass and said as Mioru started to wet his hair, "Fai's two years older than Kurogane—doesn't stop him then."

Mioru looked at Syaoran incredulously. "You obviously have never watched them in their natural habitat—or any habitat. Fai _owns _Kurogane's ass. His name is probably branded onto it." His teammate laughed at the expression on Mioru's face as the soccer captain clicked open the shampoo and started pouring it onto his head. "Oy," Mioru said, lathering through his hair, "You might as well get in here before Sakurazuka starts bitching on me about the water bills."

Syaoran shrugged good-naturedly, and opened the glass door, sliding underneath the broad shower nozzle beside his captain. Mioru glanced at his teammate up and down and frowned. "When did you get so cut? Even Watanuki is getting bigger than me."

"Not really." Syaoran ran a hand through his foamy hair and flicked out the ends. "It just seems like it to you probably because Watanuki's always been so small, and he's starting to gain weight now. And I've always been bigger than you." He smiled, amused. "You were tiny, remember?"

Mioru sighed. "Dude, why are two guys in the shower talking about size? There should be some other terminology for muscles than this—it's going to get me hard."

This time, Syaoran really laughed—mouth open and almost doubled over. "Okay then," he continued after he'd calmed down. "I've always been more muscular. Better?"

"Not really. It sounds gayer than before." Mioru wrinkled his nose. "Fucking seriously though, did you work out extra? I think you lifted more than me today, too—and I probably went over my limit. I hurt like a fucking bitch."

Syaoran tipped his head to one side, thoughtful as he soaped his arms absently. "Not really. If anything, Fai's been teaching Sakura how to cook so she makes me try out everything she makes. I've probably just been going out of Yuuto's diet and gaining weight so when I do work out, I get bigger muscle."

Mioru sighed. "And Watanuki feeds himself so that's probably why he's gaining weight, too, while all I have are the stupid, malnutrition schedules that Yuuto sends me—explains why I still look like a fucking girl." He clapped a hand onto the top of Syaoran's head with an expression of mock tragedy. "Do you have any idea how fucking ridiculous it is to be pro at twenty-four and still look like a girl?"

"Didn't you say it was hot?"

Mioru snorted. "Yeah, when we were like fourteen and the ones who were gay still wanted to pretend they were straight by doing guys-who-looked-like-girls. But by now I'm pretty sure that the ones who like dick want to fuck someone who looks like he _has_ one."

"Look at Seishiro, and Fuuma, and Ashura, and Kurogane." Syaoran handed the bar of soap over to his captain. "They seem to like guys who look like girls."

Mioru blinked. Narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, I think we all know something's been wrong with those four from birth. They don't count. I just mean," his eyebrows furrowed absently in thought, "like, I thought I'd grow out of it. Fai and Subaru aren't athletes, so when they're on screen playing on stage, it's all graceful and pretty and shit, but when you see me scoring a goal all skinny and girly, it makes the other teams talk."

Syaoran watched his captain silently. He knew that ever since they first joined their high school soccer team together Mioru had formed, and from then on always had, a frustration with how he often didn't look like he belonged on a soccer team—or any sports team. It wasn't that Mioru was small, really. Mioru was taller than Syaoran—he was nearly as tall as Doumeki. But from far away, Mioru looked like he'd be shorter than someone who looked like Syaoran—copper skin and round eyes and dark, dark hair that wasn't quite brown but didn't quite hit black either.

He knew that his captain, in their high school locker rooms, had gone through enough that if Mioru were a girl, the bastards that'd harassed him would have gone to jail. It'd been that bad, but Mioru had always told Syaoran that if he said a word about this to his parents, to anyone really, even Kurogane, he really would kill Syaoran.

And although Syaoran highly doubted Mioru would kill anyone (not because he didn't think Mioru could, but rather that he knew Mioru wouldn't, because his captain was far kinder than everyone always thought), he still didn't tell because he knew it would kill Mioru more to have people know. Kurogane was the closest thing Mioru ever got to having someone he told everything to, and now that he saw his captain—his friend—so broken over the martial artist, he had a feeling was that the problem was exactly that:

Yes, Mioru told nearly everything to Kurogane. But Kurogane didn't want nearly everything.

Kurogane always wanted everything.

And back then, Mioru hadn't been ready to do that.

Syaoran slung his arm around his captain's neck. "Who the hell cares?" he said quietly, head leaning against Mioru's as the warm water streamed down their bodies. "Every team that talked, we kicked their asses, didn't we? If that's what you're caught up about, we don't care, you know. If anything really, they probably think it's hilarious when our opponents get that fucked-over look when you score our first goal."

Mioru quickly pulled away, but not before Syaoran caught the red that tinged the tips of his captain's ears. "Shut the hell up and fucking finish showering," he muttered.

Syaoran smiled to himself. It was sad, really.

Now that Mioru was ready, Kurogane had already found a different everything.

* * *

_"Everyone knows you can't choose your family but you can choose your friends. And in a world ruled by blood lines and bank accounts, it pays to have a pal. As much as a BFF can make you go WTF, there's no denying we'd all be a little less rich without them. _

_And Serena and Blair? They do besties better than anyone. _

_No, that's not a tear in my eye. It's just allergies. Without you, I'm nothing."_

___-Gossip Girl from "Bad News Blair"_

* * *

Kamui's knuckles turned white as he gripped his cell phone tighter. "I'm serious. Are you going to come back or what? This is the fucking biggest thing that Yuuko's ever going to do and you're not even fucking here yet. You can ditch all your orchestra shit and make fun of everyone else around you, but when it comes to us, could you at least be serious about _us_? You're fucking part of us, and you can't even get here when everyone else is already flying in from halfway around the world."

The voice on the other end, melodic and light and airy and beautiful to the point of pain, laughed musically. "Are you sure you don't just miss me, K? You say 'us', but are you sure you don't mean 'me'. I assure you that I miss you every day I don't see you. And I'm not the only one still hiding away—Ashura's here too. Did you forget?"

The journalist felt his temper rise. He knew so well right now how the blond strands would be falling teasingly into sky blue eyes, clear as crystal and twice as beautiful. "I'm fucking not kidding, Yuui. Fly your ass over here before I head over to Tokyo and _drag _it back with me." There was another small chuckle and Kamui could see Yuui throwing his head back and regarding the ceiling with his amused, half-lidded gaze.

"Do you miss me?" the pianist murmured playfully.

The asshole.

Yuui's voice lowered to a croon. "I love you, K."

Kamui felt something warm starting to film over his eyes. He scowled and resisted the urge to chuck his phone at the headboard of the bed. "Shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear it. I want your ass in New York." The journalist looked up briefly to watch Fuuma walk into the room, sweating so hard that his hair was soaked. The athlete tossed his duffle bag on the suite's couch and headed for the shower with a casual wave to Kamui.

Apparently, even though it wasn't his team, Fuuma had gone to train at Seishiro's penthouse to either stave off boredom or piss off his older brother because the Sakurazuka family tended to be like that.

The journalist breathed in and out shakily. "I miss you, Y. I fucking love you so get your fucking ass over here. We want to see you and Ashura. Don't you think Fai fucking misses both of you, too? Seishiro needs someone more insane than he is over here—he wants his little jackass heir with him. Please."

He heard a pause on Yuui's end, but in his mind's eye, he watched as the pianist smiled softly, one of the few expressions that made him look like Fai. And then, "I know." Yuui's voice was gentle. "I'm coming back soon. Promise."

"When's soon?" Kamui had heard this one too many times. He knew that Yuui still had things to sort out, especially where Fai was concerned, and he knew that Fai didn't even know that. He knew it was still hard sometimes for Yuui to be around the Circus because even though they'd grown up together, Yuui had worse memories to bear that were associated with the Circus than even Fai did.

But Yuui was suddenly speaking in a determined tone, quiet but steady. "Sooner than you think." Then, as quickly as the seriousness had appeared, it disappeared ever quicker, the playful, flirtatious voice returning in its place. Kamui imagined Yuui's expression changing back to a pretty grin. "C'mon. Did you really think I'd let all that drama happen without me there?"

Kamui had to smile. "To make things worse, you mean?"

"Isn't that what I'm best at?" Yuui laughed. "Now, hang up on me and go get fucked by your soccer player. If you're lucky, he'll still be all sweaty and hot in the shower."

The journalist knew better than to be surprised. But he still had to ask, "How?" in an amused voice.

"The Maestro was my father and bWitch was my mother," Yuui said benevolently. "What is there to explain?"

"You fucked your parents?"

It was the flirting voice again. "Don't you?"

* * *

"I don't know what Fai could have fed you that gave you such a mental disease to the point where you mistook me for a detective," Seishiro said lazily, one hand opening a drawer in his desk and taking out a small white towel. He began to wipe off the fluids that Subaru had splattered—first between Subaru's legs, and then the tips of Subaru's hair. The trumpeter's body shifted slightly, a soft sigh coming from his lips as the towel brushed the area between his legs.

Sakura's mouth was tight. "Even if you're not a detective, even if your field of expertise lies miles away from law and crime, I know that everything about us always goes back to you or Yuuko. And in this case, I know it's you. You don't even have to touch his file—okay. Don't re-open the case. But tell me what happened. That's all I came here for."

The Maestro folded the towel around and wiped his own clothes and hair. He put the cloth away, and idly started stroking the sides of Subaru's pale, naked thighs. "I don't think you understand exactly what you're asking of me." The conductor didn't have to look down to sense Subaru becoming more aware, gaining his senses back after climaxing. "You're asking me to help inform you of details of an event that had nothing to do with me, yet nearly cost me and what I fucking hold near and dear."

Seishiro would never admit it, but he felt his own arms subconsciously tighten around Subaru.

The gymnast didn't seem fazed. If anything, her expression seemed to ice over. "Well, it did cost me what I held near and dear."

Subaru suddenly sat up, his back straightening and no longer limp against the crook of Seishiro's elbow. The trumpeter kept one of his hands entwined with Seishiro's and raised his gaze to Sakura. The words that came out of his mouth came out calmly and with finality, "It's not Seishiro's secret to tell."

Her hands seemed to clasp tighter against the skirt of her sundress. "Then who's?"

The Maestro rested his chin against the crown of Subaru's soft hair, almost possessively, as he bore into the gymnast's eyes. The trumpeter held onto Seishiro's hand with both of his own, thumbs stroking the conductor's knuckles slowly. "That's not ours to tell either," Subaru said in a tone that reminded Seishiro of how, no matter how different the trumpeter always insisted, Subaru really did come from the same league as his brother and the Fluorite twins—seductive, protective, powerful, and when the situation called for it, dangerous.

Emotion was starting to leak onto Sakura's face, and her forest green eyes were no longer controlled and blank. "I know he didn't overdose because he was clean—he never went back on a promise, and I know it wasn't Kyle because there was no reason, no matter how awful, for a doctor to sabotage a patient that brought him money."

"Does Syaoran know you're doing this?" Seishiro asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sakura stared back at him defiantly. "He does."

"Sakura," Subaru murmured suddenly, pressing his cheek against Seishiro's chest. "We can't tell you anything because we have promises to keep just like Fuuka did. And you do, too. So I think you should leave." There were very few moments, so few it was closer to nothing, that Subaru could resemble Kamui, could resemble the Fluorite twins so uncannily in his fervent desire to keep hidden what he wanted hidden that would actually frighten Seishiro.

Often times, it would be somewhat sexy, but then times like these, it was just really fucking scary.

Not that the Maestro would ever tell him.

Sakura's eyes were angry now. "I just want to know what happened to him." Her voice rose. "It's not like there's any way for me to press charges. He's dead—I _know_ that, but I want to know why."

Seishiro felt his eyes narrow. "You aren't how a benefactress should act."

The gymnast slipped her sunglasses over her eyes. "You aren't how a human should act." She turned around slowly and crossed over to the door, opening and closing it behind herself silently.

* * *

_I'm sure that all of you are enjoying the smoldering New York heat, kicking back on your verandas and sipping heavily iced coladas in your Milly Shimmer bikinis. Just make sure you don't get honked at by passing taxi drivers too often._

_And all the while, you're probably reading my posts to keep you updated and entertained, as we all know that lovely NYC is where our favorite Circus has pitched up their tent. Everything is happening in the city that never sleeps, and I assure you, our Circus will be entertaining us 24/7—it's not like they use their beds to sleep much anyhow._

_But as you all are reading and sipping and sun tanning the remainder of the summer away, I wonder if any of you have felt this gaping, aching whole within your gossiping heart._

_I know I certainly have._

_And for those of you who have a gossiping mind to go with this gossiping heart, I wonder if any of you have realized what this missing part of our perfect lives is. Since most of you are probably far too busy living those perfect lives in utter bliss and perfection, you most likely didn't pollute yourself with negative thoughts. So in that case, I am about to take the courtesy of letting you all know exactly what has been missing._

_We'll make a guessing game out of it._

_It's pretty._

_It's fragile._

_Its favorite hobby is so simple it doesn't even require clothes._

_It's blond._

_It likes the artistic type_

_It's an angel in hell._

_Let's all shout it out together, okay, kids?_

_One—two—three—_

* * *

As both hands pointed to midnight inside the airport and the gates opened for the latest arrival from Japan, a thin man, all done up in black—black cargo shorts, black wife beater—stepped out followed closely behind by young man with shoulder-length black hair.

The thin young man, the young man who stepped out first, raised a pale hand to his feather-light blond hair and smiled out at the nearly empty airport. His free hand reached for his dark sunglasses and lowered them just to reveal his eyes.

Clear and blue as the sky.

* * *

**A/N: **No one is more shocked than I am at how fast this chapter came. Maybe it's because of the fact that I'm going away for three weeks soon that my brain decided to kick itself into high gear and get its ass to work before summer is over. Or maybe the plot is shiny and new so I'm more eager to write. Either way, I'll work on Compelled much faster now that the turning point is finally done. (I feel really bad that I'm happy Fuuka finally died because working up to his death was so hard it's not even funny, but yeah. Love you, too, Fuuka.)

Anyway, onto my resurrected tradition:

Reviews o_0 please.

(On the other side, who missed our mad-hatter pianist? I know I sure did. -_-)


	13. Musings

**A/N: **So, this is a nice long chapter that actually has KuroFai in it, after them being like MIA for the past few stories. Also some DouWata, after they were also MIA for the past few stories. And of course, the usual dose of Senryuu/Mioru (if anyone wants to make a couplesquish name for them, I'd love that because I epically phail at that sort of thing and I'm tired of typing slashes ^^).

But seriously, since this is a long chapter, I'm sacrificing my dignity, and officially asking you on my knees to read Watch This Space. You don't have to review-you don't have to continue reading it. But if you read it and think that you don't hate it, I would love for you to keep on reading it. Yes it's Naruto (-_- And we all know what that fandom's been like recently), but I'll put it out there right now that the characters are all mainly my OCs (that I hold as near and dear as Mioru and Senryuu, and if you like those two, you'll probably like these OCs more), and the ones that are canon are the SandSibs, and personally, I think that those three are the only canon characters that produce the minimal amount of bullshit, if you get my drift. (And they're badass?)

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Musings

Doumeki closed the room of the hotel suite behind him and walked through the carpeted entryway, kicking off his sandals and pulling his t-shirt up and off his body as he went. When he reached the living room, he was met with the familiar scene of Watanuki spread shirtless and sweating on the sofa, laptop on the ottoman, propped open against a stack of books.

The goalie raised his eyes, and Doumeki noticed that Watanuki wasn't wearing his glasses today—it was more often than not that the goalie decided to wear contacts nowadays, and it wasn't that Doumeki minded or anything. He had never told Watanuki, but a tiny part of him, more subconscious than anything, missed the bespectacled goalie.

And it'd always been funny to watch the glasses fog up when they made-out.

"Arms today, huh?" Doumeki asked, taking note of how Watanuki was sweating more than he usually did during training. Most soccer players were well-rounded, having both lower and upper body strength, and one would think that the goalie would be even more so, but not for Doumeki's goalie.

Watanuki sighed fluidly, stretching his bare arms, most likely just so Doumeki would glue his eyes to the constraining muscles. "Kill me." He rolled over onto his stomach heavily and propped his chin on intertwined fingers, looking up at the forward expectantly. "How was playing with Himawari? Is she okay?"

"She's happy. Asked about you and stuff." Doumeki sat on the edge of the ottoman, mindful not to knock over the laptop, and faced Watanuki. "Dragged me all over Chinatown."

Once upon a time, Watanuki would have had berated Doumeki on how the forward should never complain about escorting a girl as pretty as Himawari and then the goalie would've had gone on an even longer rant about how it should've been Watanuki who escorted her rather than an uncivilized oaf who resembled a gorilla more than a human.

But that was once upon a time.

Now, Watanuki looked softly amused, a faint smile easing onto his lips. "Well, it's not often that Seishiro the Slave Master lets his orchestra take a break. They haven't been back in the U.S. for at least a couple of months—and even then I think it was the west coast they went to."

"They have a Chinatown there, too," Doumeki pointed out.

A tinge of exasperation appeared on Watanuki's face. "It's not the same, dumbass."

It was comments and moments like these that let Doumeki know in one way Watanuki might have changed, but in another way, Watanuki never had and never would. And that other way was more important than the external changes the other socialites could only detect—all they saw was that Watanuki no longer spazzed, no longer grew irritated at just having Doumeki breathe too close to him, no longer bickered with Mioru.

And while that was true, they didn't see those changes while keeping what Watanuki had gone through these past few years. Because while Watanuki had gone through what he'd went through, the Circus had been putting on their full-scale riots—everything that'd happened to Fai, and Mioru, and Subaru, and Seishiro and all the rest had happened while Watanuki went through riots and rebellions of his own.

But they hadn't noticed.

Doumeki had.

In the forward's mind, as long as Watanuki was still Watanuki, he didn't mind that the goalie had changed—it was inevitable that he would. Doumeki had changed, too. Everyone had. It was just that everyone else thought that "growing-up" and "changing" were two different things.

But they weren't.

There was no way to grow up without changing, and that was just what Watanuki had done.

At the very least, the sex was more plentiful.

"We're not even Chinese." Doumeki took out his cell phone and started to scroll through his messages, bored. And kind of horny. But mostly bored. And definitely not hungry because Himawari had force-fed him from every food stand they came across in Chinatown. "I ate too much."

Watanuki covered his face with his hands. "You seriously give me migraines."

"You probably didn't drink enough water or something while you were working out."

"No, it's definitely you," the goalie said.

Doumeki continued to scan his messages from earlier today while Watanuki stood up and started taking off the remainder of his clothes, most likely preparing for a shower. Change didn't always have to have a negative connotation, and one of the changes Doumeki liked (aside from the increase in sex part) was that the goalie really didn't seem to care who saw him naked any more.

No, thankfully, it hadn't reached the Yuui-Fluorite-level-of-spontaneous-stripping-in-public yet, and Doumeki was sure that Watanuki had more sanity than the pianist to ever get there, but it had reached the point where sometimes Doumeki would return home from his off-season training and find the goalie smoking that pipe that bWitch had sent him on the deck, completely naked.

It was always good to buy a house with lots of trees.

And not near the main road.

"How were the two-soon-to-be-lovebirds?" Doumeki said.

Watanuki looked dissatisfied as he turned around—naked—and knelt between Doumeki's legs—naked. It was kind of nice that the goalie's hair was damp against his forehead from perspiration. "Senryuu and Mioru? They didn't talk to each other _at all_. Not from what I saw. And I saw everything." He rested his elbows on the forward's thighs.

"Maybe they're going through that awkward-new-fuck-buddy stage." Doumeki put his phone to the side, reaching out to wipe a few drops of sweat from the side of Watanuki's face with the back of his hand.

The goalie blinked. "This is _Mioru_."

The forward blinked back. Tipped his head to the side. "That's true."

Watanuki shrugged, fingertips dipping into the edge of Doumeki's waistband. "They'll get on it soon. I don't want this to happen too fast anyway—I just don't want Seishiro to mess things up because he _will _want it to happen fast." The goalie smiled up softly as his hands began to unbutton and unzip Doumeki's jeans. "But it's hard being the Maestro."

"Not gonna play fair?" Doumeki felt blood rush north and south as Watanuki's hands found their target and brought it out into the cold air of the AC. But it hadn't even spent two seconds freezing before flaming wet heat engulfed it and the forward's eyes closed.

Watanuki stopped for a moment, and Doumeki restrained himself from wincing as the AC rushed in again, and the moist warmth was taken away momentarily. The goalie was still smiling mysteriously, licking his lips and tilting his head. "Since when did bWitch ever play fair?"

* * *

Senryuu sat on the edge of his desk, shirtless with boxers, and silently watched Mioru sleep on the assistant's bed. He himself had pulled on his underwear after finding that he was unable to fall asleep because unlike last time, they hadn't been drunk and hadn't worn themselves out completely to the point of exhaustion. He knew that Mioru was still naked beneath the sheets.

It wasn't that Senryuu had ever had trouble sleeping in general—more that if he lay down beside Mioru and tried to let go of consciousness, his nerves and heart would probably threaten to burst. When Mioru arrived at his doorstep hours ago, making it clear what he was here for, Senryuu's heart had already begun to beat like a drum played by a novice—uneven and unsteady, but with full hammering force.

And it had continued that way, beating harder and with more force against his chest as the night had gone on—as he'd touched and held Mioru, as Mioru gasped and moaned, as Mioru cried again like he'd told Senryuu he would—

As Mioru had called out Kurogane's name.

Senryuu really didn't mind—he knew it was going to happen and he probably would've been more surprised if he hadn't. The high school crush he had on Mioru was over, and although he could still feel something lingering, it was something that could be easily satisfied with friendship. After all, he hadn't even known they'd ever meet again. Friendship was probably all Senryuu could handle with Mioru anyhow.

Someone like Mioru shouldn't be with Senryuu for anything more than friendship—close friends at the most.

Mioru was full of life, energy, bright, always cursing and laughing. Kurogane had fit with Mioru well, even if the martial artist and the soccer player had ripped at each other's hearts too often and too hard. Kurogane had been able to make Mioru curse and laugh, and curse and laugh along with him—bantering through the nights, play fighting, bold confessions.

Senryuu couldn't even fall asleep next to him.

Much less do all the things Kurogane had. It was hard for Senryuu to even talk to people who surrounded him—it was why although Senryuu did everything behind the scenes, gathered papers, filed forms, negotiating and attending the meetings, Seishiro was the one who performed in front of foreign executives. The Maestro performed, spoke, flirted, impressed, intimidated with everything Senryuu prepared for him.

Senryuu would just let everything go to waste because he couldn't perform—couldn't flirt and seduce with just a smile, a gesture, a gaze.

And that was just with strangers he didn't know.

It was more than impossible with someone who made his heart beat fast.

He wasn't quite sure how he was even going to wake up early enough if he did fall asleep, since he had to be at the penthouse early enough to make sure Mioru got back before any team members arrived so as to not let any suspicion arise. Senryuu wasn't sure if he was allowed to be continuing this sort of thing with the captain of Japan's national soccer team.

The clock beside the window on the wall ticked midnight, and he started to wonder if he should bring the files from his desk outside into the living room and start working. If he worked in the bedroom, the desk light might wake Mioru and that would start a string of questions that Senryuu wasn't quite sure he could answer. Plus, Mioru had spent the entire day working out.

As Senryuu turned around and began to compile all of his papers into one stack, he heard Mioru shift in the bed, most likely twisting this way or that. He gathered the papers into the crook of his arm and straightened up, making to glance back at the bed and make sure the blankets hadn't fallen off of the athlete.

He was met with glowing sienna, staring at him through the darkness.

"Why're you up?" Mioru's voice was thick and drenched with sleep as he sat up slowly, one hand absently going up to run through his hair.

Senryuu's mouth open, and he intended to make an excuse of having work that was due the next day, or more preparations as the overseer of the company's product face, but all that ended coming out was, "I couldn't sleep."

He couldn't see Mioru's expression, but the soccer player's tone was as surprised as a sleep-laced voice could get. "Oh. Oh—um—how come?"

It took Senryuu's brain-to-mouth filter a few tries before the engine actually got going, and there was no way that it was going to let slip the fact that Senryuu couldn't sleep because he was too nervous to be that close to Mioru and not be having sex—when they had sex, Senryuu didn't have to think about being so close to Mioru, when they had sex, it was difficult to think about much at all.

"I dunno."

A pause and the dark shadow that was Mioru's head tilted a bit. "You're not going to fucking do work for Seishiro in the middle of the night, are you? Even if you can't sleep, at least lie down or something."

What happened next disabled Senryuu's poor filter after all its attempts in warming the engine up.

Mioru slowly slipped out of the bed and crossed the space between him and Senryuu in two strides. The athlete took Senryuu's hands in his and tugged both of them back to the bed. He let the edge of the bed catch the backs of his knees, making them tumble back on the sheets with Senryuu falling on top of him.

Immediately, Senryuu rolled off to the side and stared at Mioru.

It was dark, but that didn't stop Senryuu from hearing the clear, full, bell-like laughter that pealed from Mioru. "Dude, it's fucking pitch black in here, but I think you're turning red." The athlete nudged him in the shoulder. "Just get some fucking sleep before I have to knock you out—if I'm exhausted, I know you're fucking dead from fucking me that hard."

All that was left for Senryuu to do was stare, still somewhat shocked, at the shape of Mioru's back as the athlete turned on his side, facing away from the assistant, and promptly fell back into unconsciousness.

It would surprise him when he woke, but Senryuu's eyes closed not too long after, heart beating him fast into the Land of Nod all the while.

* * *

_"As summer comes an end, I'd like to share a few things I've learned about fun in the sun. Gossip Girl Summer Tip #1: Don't fall asleep on the job. The best hookups are free of morning breath and awkward conversation. The only thing harder than making up is waking up."_

_-____Gossip Girl from "Never Been Marcused"_

* * *

When Mioru awoke, his first thoughts were expletives. Mainly due to the fact that the first thing he saw was the time, and waking up an hour before you were supposed to be ready to train with your team while considering how far you were away from the training location and the wonder that was the morning commute of New York City traffic was never a good thing to do.

The next string of expletives that went through his mind came because he turned around and found himself staring at Senryuu's ridiculously beautiful face, eyelashes against his cheekbones and the whole clichéd fucking deal. Not that it was a bad thing to wake-up to someone so fucking hot, it was just that Mioru remembered that in his sleeping daze last night, he'd kind-of-sort-of-hopefully-not-really flirted with Senryuu and while that was all right as sex friends, it still wasn't ideal considering that Senryuu knew Mioru was still on Kurogane.

But then again, it wasn't like Senryuu was interested in Mioru, so the flirting was just as well.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, sitting up and hunching over. He knew he shouldn't have done this right after he'd made-up with his team for being absent on the start of training, but Watanuki had started talking about how Fai had told him Kurogane might be coming to talk to Syaoran, and after that, Mioru had hopped into Senryuu's car and it all rolled along from there.

Mioru knew that things were getting really ridiculous when he fled from the very mention of a _possibility_ that Kurogane showed up. And he would face the martial artist—he really would. He just needed more time to figure out how exactly he was going to talk to Kurogane after the shit he'd tossed onto the martial artist yet again.

And this was all assuming that Kurogane still _wanted_ to talk to Mioru.

Mioru didn't even know why he was doing this with Senryuu—not really. Maybe it was because Senryuu was like a clean slate—unknowing of how much of a jackass Mioru had been. Maybe it was because of how Senryuu didn't seem to care what Mioru's purpose or motive for anything was, but instead just welcomed him with open arms for the few weeks they'd known each other.

But he knew that he shouldn't intrude on Senryuu's life for long—this could only be an extremely temporary thing. At the longest, it could last for the rest of the off-season. Once things started up again, once the summer ended and the season began, Mioru would be on the road once more, and back to being a good puppy for the media. He'd be out of New York after this was all over anyhow, and he was sure that someone as stable as Senryuu really wanted a pretty girl or a nice guy to spend the rest of his life with—as corny as thoughts like these would've sounded years ago, Mioru now knew that it was true at the age they were all at now.

Maybe even only one or two years ago, it still wouldn't have been true—with all of them focusing on their careers, Mioru knew that even Watanuki and Doumeki, Kamui and Fuuma, and Amaterasu and Souma had even put their relationships to the side for a generous amount of time, stretching to one and a half years for some of them. At the most part, he knew that they'd only gotten together for the sex, saving the actual dating, the actual talking and living together until they'd fulfilled what they wanted fulfilled.

After all, they were still socialites and being so, they were still talented people.

And they still wanted to make the money socialites were supposed to make—when you had been raised cocooned in Burberry coats while you played in the snow, and Chanel baby shoes while you played in the playground with your nanny, you really didn't have much of a choice when you were older other than to make the money you had to in order to continue curbing those appetites.

Mioru wasn't trying to say he was any different, because he definitely wasn't. He was just trying to contain his unbearable envy in the fact that his peers actually had people who would wait that long for them, even if some of them had met for just sex, he knew that it hadn't been without emotion, without any longing of wanting to truly be with each other once they'd settled into their dreams—what they loved to do and what they were best at.

He snorted softly to himself, rubbing at his eyes again. For him, his dream was the only thing that he had to care about—and it wasn't that it wasn't enough, because there was truly no way for Mioru to describe the way that he loved soccer nor a way to express how much he loved it. It was just that…although soccer filled Mioru with the closest thing to happiness he'd ever felt during his childhood, it couldn't really love Mioru back.

Soccer couldn't.

His parents hadn't.

His teammates had no reason to.

There were no friends to.

He'd thought Kurogane had.

Mioru closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly—he wasn't supposed to be thinking like this. He couldn't think like this right now—he had to be in the right mindset for training—for leading his team. Moreover, he had to be _present_ to lead his team. He stood up and started to look for his clothes—if he remembered right, they should be outside folded on the couch or something. He'd just have to deal with the sweat and stickiness until he got back—at least then he could just tell the team that he woke up a little late and the shower took too long warming up.

Senryuu's entire apartment reminded Mioru of Seishiro's penthouse—he wasn't sure if it was like-assistant-like-CEO, or if it was just that Senryuu liked simple, modern, sleek things and the apartment was obviously on the higher side of the price-scale to begin with—what with still being on the Upper East Side and all. It wasn't that the furniture looked similar to Seishiro's, but more that it was the same sort of style—completely black leather sofas and chairs and clean silver metal or clear glass tables. The tiles and countertops were marble and granite and the woods were dark and mahogany.

He was halfway through pulling on his clothes when he felt a gaze on him, and turned to see Senryuu standing in the doorway of his bedroom, the assistant's eyes looked intensely thoughtful, eyebrows furrowed. "Um," Mioru cleared his throat, still bent over in mid-action of zipping his shorts. "I didn't want to wake you, but I think I'm going to be late."

"I'm driving you so we'd both have been late," Senryuu said simply. "You should at least take a shower—it'd only be a few minutes more."

Mioru blinked. "You need to take one, too, don't you?"

Senryuu folded his arms, eyes widening like a child's. "Well, yeah, but I figured that you wouldn't want to stink since you're going to have to work out and all in those tiny rooms with about eleven other guys."

"Then I shouldn't take a shower at all, if you put it that way," Mioru grumbled, but started taking off his clothes again anyway. "I'll just stink again later when I start working out."

"You'll stink more than you should if you don't shower beforehand," the assistant said. "And it's not good to go in to the gym unsanitary after sex."

If anyone else had said to him, Mioru probably would have laughed because it was common sense to assume that it was just friendly sarcastic banter, but since this was Senryuu and Senryuu was an elementary school child, Mioru knew that he was being serious about this and thus didn't exactly know how to respond to the round, solemn eyes.

So Mioru was half afraid that Senryuu would take this too seriously even though Mioru meant it as a joke, while the other half of Mioru didn't really have much of a choice because it just sort of fell out of his mouth formed as, "Should we shower together, then?"

And miraculously (or maybe not so miraculously, and Mioru just didn't know Senryuu that well, yet), the assistant's face broke into a half smile. "I was that good, huh?"

Whether it was morning wood or maybe just out of pure whim, even though Mioru was usually up for sex whenever the occasion arose, he usually didn't find himself unable to resist smiling so widely as his partner pulled him by the waistband of his boxer briefs.

* * *

Sometimes Fai thought that Kurogane liked to live a hard life, because lately it seemed that the martial artist was taking particular care in making everything more difficultly complicated than it had to be for himself. But for the most part, Fai reasoned that when he and Kurogane had first met, it was always Fai being really stupid and running away from things so maybe now it was Kurogane's turn to be stupid and run away from things.

It didn't change anything in Fai's knowledge that Kurogane would always be stronger than the musician—Kurogane had his shit together even when he was in stupid denial. However, it gave Fai the feeling that after all Kurogane had done for him, Fai should step it up and do for the athlete what the athlete had done for Fai when the musician had been confused and hurt without even realizing it.

Besides, it wasn't as if Fai could just ignore the fact that Kurogane loved Mioru forever—and it wasn't as if Fai could let Kurogane ignore it either, since it'd be like ignoring an elephant in your bedroom and trying to talk around it. To be honest, as disbelieving as it sounded, Fai truly didn't have any thoughts about Kurogane loving Mioru—presently, currently, _right now_ loving Mioru, even if the athlete didn't know it.

Kurogane loved Fai and Fai knew that, but Fai also knew that there was a kind of love that wouldn't be able to heal and disappear until it was acknowledged. And because Kurogane always assumed that his love for Mioru had ended when their time in high school had, the martial artist never gave a chance for the hole to heal because he'd just tapered it off and tried to forget about it.

And now Fai realized that maybe sending Kurogane off like that by himself last time hadn't been such a great idea. Maybe next time Fai should be there for parental supervision since it didn't seem that either Kurogane or Mioru were capable of conducting civilized conversation on their own. Of course, he couldn't simply put the blame on those two solely because the musician should've known that Kurogane wasn't able of holding a conversation about emotions without breaking something or yelling or yelling and causing someone else to break something.

As for Mioru—

Well, he wasn't Fai's responsibility.

For his next move, Fai had to figure out within the next half hour a way to gently break the news to Kurogane that the violinist had just received a text, and that he and the martial artist had just been invited out to dinner by Seishiro, with a multitude of others joining, the list including Subaru, Kamui, Fuuma, but most importantly, Mioru.

If they declined, Seishiro would probably be furious and Subaru probably wouldn't be able to walk the next day—and Fai would be to blame.

But then again, Fai had never agreed to helping Seishiro with this ridiculous competition of sorts, so if (because they really couldn't decline) they showed up and the restaurant went to shatters with plenty of damage bills for proof, Fai wasn't going to have any of Seishiro's bullshit and the violinist would make sure that the Maestro wouldn't get laid for a month.

At the least.

The violinist smiled sweetly down at his cell phone's screen, not bothering to reply to Seishiro's text. He leaned back on the sofa, putting his legs up on the table, and glanced sideways down the hall that led to the presently running shower. "Kuro-wan?" he called, listening carefully for a response against the sound of water.

The shower ran on for another few seconds and then abruptly shut off. There was a brief moment of pause, and then Kurogane came out with one towel around his waist and one towel draped over his head, and falling over his eyes. The martial artist pulled it away from his line of sight and started drying his hair as he walked towards the back of the sofa. "What?"

Fai swiveled his head around and smiled up. "Hungry?"

Kurogane frowned suspiciously. "Why?"

The violinist's smile broadened.

"You know I'm not stupid," the athlete said, continuing to ruffle the towel through his damp strands. He walked around the sofa and took a seat on the armrest, squinting at Fai. "Every time you ask me questions like that, it always turns out bad."

"Questions like what, Kuro-chan?"

"Normal questions that normal people ask."

Fai looked away from the martial artist's face, knowing that if he didn't, he would smile so widely that his face would split in half. "I'm not normal?"

"You're perfectly normal," Kurogane said sarcastically. "So just tell me the truth, since it's not going to make much of a difference whatever way you do it."

"I am telling the truth," Fai insisted calmly. "I asked if you were hungry."

Kurogane rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Fine, I'm hungry. And?"

Fai went to stand in front of Kurogane, the athlete's knees pressing into his thighs. "Would you like to go out for dinner?" He painted an angelic smile across his face, and predictably, Kurogane's face started to bring out the rain clouds.

"You're _really_ fucking freaking me out, Fluorite." But despite his words, Kurogane slid forward and pulled Fai between his legs, hands resting on the musician's hips.

The violinist placed his hands on the athlete's bare arms. "Would you rather have sex right now, eat whatever we have in the kitchen, and then have more sex later?"

"Obviously," Kurogane snorted. "_But _you're going to make me do some other shit, aren't you?"

Fai laughed. "Obviously," he echoed.

"Then what is it?" the martial artist grunted. "Just fucking tell me so I can put on some pants since we're not going to do it." Fai noticed that, yet again, despite Kurogane's words, the athlete's hands were still on Fai's waist, as if hoping against hope.

"We're going out to dinner."

Kurogane's expression was covered with surprise. "That's not bad."

Fai gave a small apologetic smile. "And Mioru's going to be there—Seishiro invited us."

The athlete growled and let go of Fai instantly, standing up and escaping to the other end of the living room. "Fluorite," he roared. There wasn't really any hint of betrayal or disappointment or anything akin to that, but rather, on Kurogane's face, there was plenty of irritation and maybe even apprehension.

But mostly irritation.

Fai simply stood where he was quietly, eyebrows raised.

Kurogane glared back.

Fai blinked.

Kurogane's jaw tightened.

Fai tilted his head.

Kurogane looked away.

Fai smiled.

"I'll go put some pants on," Kurogane muttered.

* * *

_There's nothing like conversation and friends over poached lobster at Butter. Good food, good company, good wine on a Friday night—really, there's not much else to ask for._

_I myself will be taking in just these things tonight at Butter, so just as a heads-up to all my lovely readers, if you want to be alive for more relaxing Friday nights, don't drop by to see me._

_Believe my words—it isn't because I don't want to see your beautiful MAC covered faces and. Rather, the company I'll be dining with isn't of the pleasant sort. Who knows what sort of crashes and clashes there will be? I even have an inkling that the restaurant might end up suing by the end of the night for property damage._

_But then again, there's really not much else I can do about this situation._

_At the very least, when you wake up to a beautiful Saturday morning in New York tomorrow, you'll have some great entertainment on your hands, I assure you. And of course I'll be keeping you wide awake throughout the night._

_So kick back, relax, and enjoy the first round:_

_K vs M_

_Who's your money on?_

* * *

**A/N: **Can you sense the catfight approaching?


	14. Homecoming

**A/N: **This is kind of a lengthy chapter so I hope it makes up for my snail-paced updates now that school's really started back up (and because StarkBlack has updated and I love her too much?) So clothing's always been an important thing to me, and it's super important in Gossip Girl. I really dunno why, but ever since I could remember, clothing framed like periods of my life and I really like fashion, especially that quirky sort of weird haute couture stuff-the stuffed used in GG (for anyone interested, apparently they're thinking about making a Chinese version of GG, meaning I s'pose it's the next best thing to having an outright anime of it and the actors waiting in line are all my favs). For what Subaru's going to be mentioned wearing, think Super Junior's Leeteuk, if any of you know him. And for Mioru's outfit, think MBLAQ's Lee Joon (or Rain at Strong Heart, maybe? I don't really remember who I saw wearing it. It might've even been Yamapi or Eunhyuk.)

Anyway, enjoy and pray that I learn to write like StarkBlack (-_- in my dreams).

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Homecoming

Subaru wasn't quite sure if he should've said something to Seishiro or if he'd done right by leaving it alone. Although, he supposed it was too late either way considering that they were both already sitting at the table and Seishiro was already browsing the menu to decide what he wanted to get drunk on tonight. It was inevitable that the conductor, whether he liked it or not, was going to need all the alcohol the restaurant would give him because as Subaru personally thought (and as Seishiro probably knew himself) tonight was a suicide mission on all parties' parts.

The trumpeter stretched his neck left and right, sighing around the necktie of his collared shirt. Butter was a socialite stage, and dinnertime was when the catwalk was brought out. It was a precarious thing, having to dress up for an event disguised as a non-event. If you dressed your best, then it would be clear to see and Subaru could think of nobody else more judgmental upon trying too hard than socialites.

In New York City, one of the world's fashion empires, it was far harder than in Japan. Subaru knew that Seishiro had stayed up nights when they first settled in, searching on the computer, filling the study with the smoke and scent of weed, looking up pictures of socialites' casual dress New-York-style.

It had taken two weeks to master it.

Needless to say, they'd donated a great amount of clothes during those two weeks.

Tonight, Subaru was in what the socialite magazines and blogs had recently dubbed as Subaru Sumeragi's signature—a fitted checkered shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, buttoned up to the neck and sealed with a bow tie, knee-length linen shorts, and huge square frames over his eyes. He smiled at remembering the first time he was pushed out of the dressing room by Hokuto (who'd lived in New York a year before they had), and Seishiro had done the Maestro version of a squint and promptly proceeded to ask Hokuto why there was a need for the trumpeter to wear lens-less glasses.

Since then, Subaru thought that Seishiro had not only grown accustomed to it, but the conductor had also developed a slight schoolboy fetish, and the trumpeter felt it was only a matter of time until the Maestro dug up their old uniforms and pulled Subaru into bed.

However, Seishiro had been dubbed with his own style as well.

They were the kind of outfits only people as tall as Seishiro could wear—the classic tie-less black collared shirts and black jackets, the sort of outfit clubbers wore.

Only clearly on Seishiro it didn't give off the same sleazy clubbing vibes, as Subaru had watched more than one female socialite walk past their table with eyes for the conductor. Some of them eyed him as well, but trained as the trumpeter was, he knew the difference between eyes that held sex and eyes that held awe. The eyes that watched Subaru were mostly filled with awe tinged with curiosity. It was rare to come by Western men built as delicately as Subaru, as Fai. And he was sure that most Western women didn't find him attractive, even if some did find him something to admire as they'd admire a child.

"If any of them are more than half an hour late," Seishiro said under his voice, smiling naturally at a passing elderly male socialite they'd met at a benefit, "I think I'm going to hit a baby."

Subaru raised his eyebrows. "That's a new one."

The conductor smiled. "Well, as long as they keep coming up with new ways to make me go insane, I have to keep up thinking of new social atrocities to commit."

"I hope you know that this is probably going to end badly," Subaru commented. "And that you're not helping Mioru by doing this—you're not helping Senryuu either. And you're going to get hit by Kurogane again."

"It doesn't hurt," Seishiro dismissed.

The trumpeter blinked doubtfully. "Really?"

The conductor touched the rim of Subaru's frames. "You know, you should wear these more often. They make your eyes look bigger."

"I thought glasses make eyes look smaller. And you're changing the subject—it does hurt, doesn't it?"

Seishiro just grinned. "It gives you that wide-eyed schoolboy look, too. Especially when you blink and raise your eyebrows—like that, yeah." He leaned his elbow on the table and looked upward at Subaru, the grin turning into a vague smirk. "It's kind of hot."

Subaru wrinkled his nose. "I know you have to get drunk to stave off the insanity, but if you're going to be horny _and_ drunk, then you're just going to have to bribe the restaurant not to sue or ban you because you did me on the tables again. It cost a _lot _of money to replace that ficus."

The conductor folded his fingers beneath his chin and looked away briskly at the memory. "It's not like semen is _hazardous_ to houseplants—that ficus would've lived."

The trumpeter laughed under his breath.

"So does this mean I can't kiss you?" Seishiro glanced at him, the smile back. But as he was just asking, beneath the table, the Maestro's fingers were already tangling themselves with Subaru's.

"Will you try to stay relatively sober?" Subaru countered teasingly.

Seishiro gave him a knowing look full of tease in return, "Subaru," he admonished playfully. "You should know by now—it's impossible to stay sober when I'm kissing you."

Subaru couldn't help it. He laughed full and ringing, stifling futilely with his hand. He laughed until he could only shake his head, still smiling. "Wow," he chuckled. "Wow, really impressive, Maestro. Are you sure you don't want to try that on the daughters of that new law firm's CEO? I'm sure they'd appreciate it more than me."

The conductor's eyes followed Subaru's gaze towards the table near the closest window. "The two brunettes? In the Stella McCartney dresses?"

The trumpeter nodded.

A grin spread on Seishiro's face as he turned his eyes back to Subaru. "But you should know that, too."

Subaru had to smile. "What?"

"The _only_ way I could ever kiss them is _when_ I'm drunk—it'd take all of Butter's stock to get me drunk enough to kiss them."

This time, Subaru laughed so hard his head fell back, and he had to bite his lips hard in order not to laugh loud enough to attract stares. "Seishiro," he breathed breathlessly. "Seriously—seriously, do you _practice_ these lines? Like, _plan_ ways for me to choke on my saliva?"

Seishiro pulled off Subaru's black frames and put them onto his own face. "I'd like you to think that I'm just blessed with spontaneous genius. It rings better, don't you think?"

Subaru smiled and rolled his eyes, stretching his arm and taking back his glasses. "Sure—of course it does."

"I like making you laugh," the conductor said quietly, smiling down softly at their entwined hands. "I should do it whenever I can—you think I do it too often, but I've got three years."

Subaru's brow furrowed bemusedly.

"I have to pay you back what I should've given you during those three years, remember?" Seishiro smiled sadly. "You should've been laughing and smiling like this, but you were crying instead."

Subaru tilted his head, eyes soft. "How come you're talking like this a lot lately? I don't know if, for you, it's got to do with everything that's happening, but it feels like—"

"When I see everyone," Seishiro murmured, "it's too obvious. Kurogane helped Fai get over Kyle. Senryuu will make Mioru get over Kurogane. Fuuma helped Kamui get over his fear of getting heartbroken. Doumeki helped Watanuki over the fear of loving someone different. But what am I supposed to do? They all helped each other over something that caused them pain, but if I'm the one who caused you pain, am I supposed to help you get over me?"

The trumpeter felt a tentative smile ease onto his face, and he looked up and offered it to the conductor. "Have you ever thought, maybe, _I_ can help _you_ overcome something?"

Seishiro raised his eyebrows. "Overcome?"

Subaru merely smiled and gently eased his hand out of the conductor's. "Later." He leaned his head upward, motioning to the entrance just visible amidst the glass walls that separated sections of the restaurant. "They're here."

* * *

Mioru was fairly proud of himself. He was proud that by having somehow managed to dodge Fuuma and Kamui, worm around Subaru and Seishiro's table, and then finally encumber himself into the bathroom, he'd done what not many could ever have hoped to accomplish.

There had been a time when Mioru would have loved to strut all around in front of watching eyes, feeling the lust and attraction waft towards him. There had been a time where Mioru would have scoffed at what he was currently wearing now, claiming that it didn't show enough skin—enough muscle. Although part of the reason why Mioru was hiding right now was that he suspected Seishiro would have seizures once he conductor took a proper look at what Mioru was wearing.

Because although the past Mioru wouldn't have thought it sufficient, now, Mioru thought that as far as adult socialites went, he had to admit that his style of clothing hadn't developed as much as it should've—still immature, just like him.

For the past few years, because he hadn't seen much of his teammates outside of practice and games, he hadn't seen much of them outside of uniforms and sweats. But as he'd tiptoed to the bathroom, he'd spotted Seishiro and Subaru, Fuuma and Kamui. And even though Seishiro still had the whole club-hopper-evil-CEO-drama-esque look, the other three had pretty much graduated from their drunk high school selves—fashion-wise.

The last time Mioru remembered seeing Fuuma in clothes other than a soccer jersey was during a Holy Trinity party, and as per Fuuma back then, he'd been wearing a wife beater and jeans (and a stoned Kamui). But now, Fuuma was in clean cut dark chinos, low on his hips, only a hint of striped collared shirt hanging out.

The twins had drastically changed, too. Mioru always had used to love, and look forward to, Kamui in those enormous t-shirts or wife beaters and sweatshirts in the winter time, with either tiny, tiny jeans on his thin legs or at parties, nothing at all. Minutes ago, however, Mioru had seen him in khaki shorts and a long-sleeved cotton shirt that draped around his frame like those enormous t-shirts used to. And then, being Kamui, there was the usual odd quirk—suspenders hanging over his shoulders, not really attached to his pants, and not really for anything else other than fashion.

But Subaru—dear God, Subaru.

Had Seishiro developed a schoolboy fetish?

That, honestly, was all Mioru could form as an opinion. He could definitely tell that what Subaru was wearing was high fashion (probably a product of Hokuto, no doubt), but it just—well—it wasn't as if Subaru lacked in the fuckable department, and this just upped that aspect of the musician by too much than should be necessary or healthy for those around him.

It was probably the glasses—the lens-less glasses.

A tiny part of Mioru wanted to throw Subaru over a table and see how many thrusts it would take, and how hard they needed to be, until those glasses fell off the trumpeter's face.

But then the soccer captain's corpse would probably be found on Ellis Island.

Looking into the bathroom mirror, hands steadying himself against the counter, Mioru really wondered how he hadn't seemed to change much at all when everyone else had. He was sure that once he saw Syaoran and the others properly, he'd see their changes in socialite wear as well. Although, not much of this came as a surprise to him. What one wore reflected who one was and what one felt about himself, and the fact that Mioru hadn't changed much just reflected that he was still stuck in years past.

He breathed in and out deeply once, steadied himself, and then pushed himself out of the door.

Once he reached the table, he saw that Senryuu had appeared as well and gave the assistant a small grin. However, it was hard to maintain that grin, no matter how small, when Seishiro was standing up and advancing upon Mioru by the millisecond. The conductor gave the athlete a once-over and then raised his eyebrows. "I expected much worse than this, although I still have to ask you how you manage to wear khakis that low without flashing everyone."

"Stop being a shithead, Seishiro," Kamui said from the table, bored. "He dresses a hell of a lot better than he used to, and right now, I'd rather have him fuck me than you."

Mioru blinked. He did?

Fuuma laughed. "The last time I saw you, you were wearing basketball shorts and shirtless."

"That's because the last time you saw me was during practice this morning, dumbshit," Mioru snapped. "And I still don't get why you come when it's not your team." He brushed past Seishiro without another thought, all of his mind focusing on Fuuma's grinning face and playful eyes.

"C'mon," Fuuma reached up to ruffle Mioru's hair—the captain dodged. "What's one more sexy athlete with a six-pack?"

"I don't think there's anyone on my team who has less than a six-pack, and when I'm dead tired from lifting weights, collapsed on the floor, I don't really give a crap about your self-proclaimed sexiness," Mioru countered, huffing, and sliding in beside Subaru into the booth.

Subaru smiled, meeting the athlete's eyes. "You really do look good tonight—it's very different from what we all remember."

"All of you look fucking different, too," Mioru grumbled back, taking a random glass of water and bringing it to his lips.

The trumpeter laughed and yanked a little bit at the cloth on Mioru's shoulder. "Y'know, Hokuto never told me that cashmere fitted onto muscles like this."

Mioru coughed, an ice cube lodging itself uncomfortably in his throat. "Excuse me?"

Subaru simply continued to smile and concluded with a pat on the athlete's shoulder.

Weirder and weirder in Mioru's opinion.

He watched the condensation drip off the sides of his glass, wondering if they'd already ordered the food as Kamui and Fuuma stood up with Seishiro to greet a man and a woman, most likely business acquaintances, at a nearby table. Seishiro bowed slightly, before turning his gaze significantly to Subaru, who immediately stood up to join the other three.

Mioru let his eyes wander to Senryuu, seated at the other end of the table. He edged over to the assistant's side, nudging his shoulder. "You're dressed like you always are for work with Seishiro," he commented casually.

Senryuu blinked slowly three times, staring at Mioru, and then blinked another two slow times staring at the table before he finally turned his gaze back to the athlete and answered simply, "I'm _here_ for work."

The athlete puffed out his cheeks and leaned forward on his elbows—one of the things Mioru had noticed about Senryuu in their almost-two-weeks-of-acquaintanceship was that the assistant always smelled like the kind of scent-found-on-t-shirts he'd want to jack off to in his spare time. "So the bastard even makes you work on Friday nights? Why is he such a lame ass boss?"

Senryuu tilted his head and gave a small smile. "He doesn't usually—but, I think tonight he knows he'll need back-up."

"For what?" Mioru frowned. "Is he going to try and fuck Subaru on weird places again? I heard about the fichus." His frown deepened as his imagination forced images of himself trying to cut a filet mignon while the Maestro and the trumpeter were engaging in their activities on the potted plant near the table.

The assistant's soft smile spread to his eyes. "No, I don't think so. I think what he's worried about concerns you, actually."

Mioru wasn't _stupid_.

"Is Kurogane coming?" he asked emptily.

Senryuu shifted his gaze away significantly.

All Mioru could do was laugh bitterly. "It'll be on Seishiro's bank account then—the property damage."

"You could _try_ talking to him," Senryuu said quietly.

Mioru snorted. "Because that worked out fantastically the first time around, didn't it?"

Senryuu smiled gently. "Maybe it'll work out more fantastically the second time around."

Mioru gaped. The smile playing on the assistant's lips was perfectly sincere and soft, but there was a sort of witty light shining from the silver blue eyes that made Mioru reach out and punch his shoulder, earning a laugh from those smiling lips. "You asshole," the athlete said, unable to stop a grin from forming on his face.

"I'm sorry," Senryuu grinned back sheepishly without a trace of apology.

"You asshole," Mioru repeated around the rim of his glass. "I'm trying to angst my balls out here, and you go sarcastic bastard on me—we have to fuck at least five times before I let you do that without punching you."

Senryuu stole the glass out of the athlete's hand and drank from it, even though his own glass was sitting centimeters away. "It's not like your punches hurt, though, so it's quite all right."

Mioru laughed, incredulous and thrilled. "If we were anywhere but here, I'd kick your ass so hard you'd feel it in your dick."

"That's too bad," the assistant said softly, half-smiling. "You look so pretty tonight and kicking my ass would get you all messed up."

Mioru snorted. "_Subaru and Kamui_ look fucking pretty—without Fuuma and Seishiro, they'd probably get raped by drunk clubbers with schoolboy fetishes."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you got raped, too, then," Senryuu shrugged. "Although, sans the schoolboy fetish, of course. But you look nice, is what I'm trying to say. I like this especially." The assistant tugged on the sleeve of Mioru's sweater. "It's interesting."

The athlete blinked skeptically. "This sweater is the best fucking thing that's happened to me. I hate fastening things so it's got no zippers or buttons, and it's thin enough so I can wear it in the summer when I have to go to stupid places like this where the people around me will, like, have aneurysms if I just go in pants and a wife beater—which is usually what I'm going to be wearing under this sweater."

"I like it because it swishes," Senryuu commented teasingly, indicating the length. "And because you like it."

Mioru didn't know if he should laugh this off or smile the idiotic smile that he felt threatening to spread across his face. It wasn't that he was the kind of person to be fazed with compliments like this—especially when he normally dressed in whatever he thought was expensive and comfortable and made him look sexy as fucking hell, and didn't really care what anyone else thought. It was perhaps, more to the fact that the compliments he did usually get were either in the field of his career (he had great aim, great speed, great tactics) or while someone was fucking him or he was fucking someone else (he was hot, his body was fit, his muscles were perfect, he could last hours).

He'd never had anyone tell him that he simply looked good—that he was dressed nicely, or anything like that.

And maybe that was the reason why Mioru felt his cheeks warm up as Senryuu continued to smile at him gently.

So, stupidly, all Mioru could grumble back in response was a low, "Shut up," trying to will away the fucking, fucking blush as fast as possible.

But because Mioru was Mioru, he supposed that something had to be fucked up by him and his fucking jackass-ness, because Senryuu obviously took Mioru's asshole reply the wrong way (although Mioru knew that it'd be impossible for Senryuu to take it the right way considering that everything Mioru did only had a wrong way to be taken), and said, leaning in, his smile now actually apologetic, "I'm sorry. Should I not have said that?"

_Too close_

Mioru instinctively backed away in his seat—it wouldn't do to have such eyes, to have that impossible glowing color, so near to him. He wouldn't be able to reply if that happened. He scowled pointedly at his glass and shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

He didn't see Senryuu's expression but he heard a sort of soft insistency in the assistant's voice when he said, "Well—you look good—as good, if not better, as all the others."

Mioru felt the heat spread from his cheeks to his ears and down the back of his neck as he looked up quickly at Senryuu, who was still offering that simple encouraging smile. "You look good, too." The words fell out of his mouth before he could hold them back with the proper amount of shame and dignity. "You'd look better if you didn't give a shit about Seishiro and dressed the way you want to."

Senryuu looked amused now. "You haven't even seen me wear my regular clothes."

Again, the next words came out blurted and wholly unintentional—_wholly_. "But I've seen you."

The assistant's face was wiped with surprise, completely taken aback, eyebrows raised and eyes round as plates.

A need to buy a shell and live like a hermit crab engulfed Mioru.

Thank fucking all heavens and deities, it wasn't even two seconds into the awkwardness that Seishiro and the other three returned, sliding into their seats and adjusting their hair and clothes into further perfection. The conductor looked at Senryuu and Mioru and seemed to stifle a smirk as he said briskly, "Wipe off the retarded face, Senryuu, the rest of the sluts are here." He jerked his head at in the direction of the entrance.

Subaru nudged Mioru in the side. "Hey," the trumpeter whispered. "Take it easy, okay?"

Mioru whipped around indignantly. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Subaru explained patiently, "that Kurogane is as nervous as you are and he thinks that you don't want to talk to him either—"

"Yeah, I really _don't_—"

"But it's not going to get any better until you both do, so please," Subaru pleaded, "just keep the bullshit to a minimum and don't destroy the restaurant. I have a new piece to practice and I can't do that with Seishiro's dick in me 23.5 hours of the day."

Mioru frowned. "You curse a lot more than you used to, you know that?"

A tiny smile found its way onto the trumpeter's face. "Remember who I live with."

"How can I forget?" Mioru snorted, as the new arrivals neared their table and they all stood to greet them.

* * *

Kurogane hated dressing up. Or semi-dressing-up, as Fai technically put it. Either way, he personally thought it'd always been a waste of money when he had to stock up on chinos or khakis because they then would always have to be sent to the tailor's since, for him, either the length of the leg was too short or the size of the waist was too big—the same went with the shirts. Although there had been times when Fai had similar problems as well.

Regardless, Kurogane hated dressing up and he hated it now as he walked towards the table where Seishiro, Subaru, Fuuma, Kamui, Mioru, and the creeper-that-fucked-Mioru sat. The only tiny, tiny, infinitesimal perk about these events (they weren't even supposed to be events—they were supposed to be Friday-dinner-with-friends, but in all the movies Kurogane had seen, when normal people did that kind of thing, they wore jeans not Gucci) was that in semi-dressing-up-wear, Fai always looked more tempting than he normally did.

Not that it wasn't always tempting to throw Fai over the nearest solid surface, but like a mix between Seishiro and Subaru, Fai liked to pull the look of a schoolboy rebelling and escaping to the clubs—it was more or less the same structure of wear as Subaru, only tousled and loose and open and careless and why did they have to be here when Kurogane could be throwing him over the nearest solid surface?

When they reached the table, Kurogane saw, thankfully, that there were at least a few sane people who'd be joining them for dinner—that included Karen Kasumi and Seiichiro, Sorata and Arashi, and Kotori Monou.

It wasn't until his eyes completely swept the table that he finally realized Mioru was already present.

When did Mioru start wearing clothes like _this_?

Mioru had always had the air of a socialite, but back in high school, he'd never really dressed like one when it was for anything but completely formal events—balls and galas and things like that. He'd always get by wearing as little as he could get away with and with that little, wearing it as low and tight as he could get away with.

And while some of that was changed tonight, it was the same style Mioru had, only this time, he looked like a socialite. He looked—

Like an adult.

Even though they were low, the khaki shorts were neat and crisp on his hips, and they weren't obscenely low; even though Kurogane could tell it was a wife beater, there was one of those long, open, dark blue sweaters that went over it. Neat leather loafers, his hair freshly showered and mussed, his skin glowing with a healthy sheen, his eyes alight and alert and full of life.

As they waited for Seishiro to finish greeting and seating Kotori, Fai touched Kurogane's arm and the martial artist looked down at the musician's soft smile. "Doesn't Mioru look good tonight?"

Kurogane's jaw tightened.

Fai's eyes were knowing. "You can admit it you know," he continued gently. "You can admit—"

"I don't love him," Kurogane hissed back under his breath. Fai's gaze didn't turn any more believing as Seishiro suddenly popped out of the fires of hell and wrapped his arm around the violinist, pulling him back like a scene out of Gone with the Wind, and kissing him full on the lips.

"Glad you aren't too busy being thrown over the nearest solid surface," the conductor said, smiling at Kurogane's scowl. Fai simply looked mildly amused. "Hungry? We didn't know what you'd want so we ordered two of the entire menu—including the wine selection, of course."

Kurogane rolled his eyes. "Will anyone finish that?"

"Well," Seishiro said indifferently, "considering no one wants to fuck a fat person, probably not, but I'm sure the rest can be donated to charity or puppies."

The martial artist forced his eye not to twitch and his blood pressure to remain within healthy constraints. He grabbed Fai by the wrist and pulled him out of danger swiftly, one arm soldered around the violinist's waist.

"Do sit down," Seishiro said, happy as a fucking chipmunk.

The booth side of the tables was filled so Fai and Kurogane took the seats at the end with Fai beside the creeper-that-fucked-Mioru and Kurogane across Mioru.

He didn't quite understand what he was supposed to do now that he was inches away, facing the soccer player. He didn't quite understand because he knew that sure as hell Fai wasn't expecting him to simply open his mouth and start discussing this like a pansy, talking about their feelings and shit akin to that because if the violinist did, then there were puppies that were going to die tonight.

Kurogane glanced at Fai, only to find the violinist talking to the creeper-that-fucked-Mioru for reasons that the martial artist really couldn't fathom. Fai was showering the creeper-that-worked-for-Seishiro with smiles and asking him pretty things in the soft voice that Kurogane had long since established was the voice Fai used when he wanted something from someone and planned to connive it out of them within an inch of that poor soul's life.

And, of course, fucking perfect, Mioru wasn't even looking at him. The soccer player was obviously avoiding Kurogane's eyes in lieu of his own salad fork. Normally in cases like these, the silence between them would be made more awkward by the contrasting upbeat conversation happening around them, but rather it was made more piercing, sharper and more painful. He'd never thought there would come a time when he would _wish_ the air was filled with awkwardness.

But if Mioru didn't say something within the next few seconds, Kurogane was going to be up to bat because he was sure as fuck that if the rest of the night was going to go down in semi-awkward/semi-painful silence between them then Fai would make sure that the martial artist wouldn't get laid for the next half a year.

And, as expected because Life poured all of its love into Fai these days and saved none of its affection for Kurogane, Mioru's mouth stayed shut, meaning Kurogane had to open his. He only wished that Life would just consider him a little and make words come out when he did.

"How's training going?" Kurogane grunted half-coherently, his own eyes not leaving his silverware.

Mioru seemed to choke on the food going down his esophagus, which struck Kurogane as odd considering that the course presently on the table was a chowder and the martial artist wasn't exactly sure how someone choked on chowder. The soccer player glanced up quickly with shocked eyes. "Um—yeah—it's—it's going all right."

"Good." Kurogane twisted his spoon around a few times, somehow unable to feel the hunger that'd gnawed at his stomach just an hour ago.

Mioru bit his lip and nodded, looking away again.

Kurogane continued to stir around his chowder, idly watching the swirls of delicately sliced vegetables swim around in the contents and not feeling like putting any of it into his mouth at all.

"Not hungry?" the soccer player asked suddenly in a timid voice.

"No," he grunted back. "Not really. You?"

Mioru shook his head, eyes remaining fixed on his own uneaten soup.

"If you aren't going to eat the food I graciously paid for, then how about you two go out to the balcony so the rest of us can enjoy our meal without being choked in angst?" Seishiro asked, leaning forward and looking down the table, one hand in Subaru's hair and the other holding a glass of wine.

Motherfucker.

Kurogane exchanged glances with Fai and then stood up, shoved his hands into his pockets, and headed for the outdoor seating. He heard the scrape of another chair and sensed Mioru following him.

* * *

Kamui could feel the oxygen leave the restaurant.

He could feel the air leave his lungs and he could feel the air leave the lungs of every other person who was seated within sight of the entryway. It happened seconds after Kurogane and Mioru excused themselves. It happened silently and unexpectedly and _fucking fuck_ Kamui wanted to kill something. It happened the way these sorts of scenes always happened in girly, crappy teenage movies.

The moment before it happened, the air was perfect. The atmosphere was bright with flirting and banter and mocking insults, sarcastic and friendly. There was laughter, there was wine, there was food. All of their lives were finally together after years of disarray, and this was just another moment in a long chain of moments that was just right—that nothing was wrong. Kurogane and Mioru? They'd sort their shit out and they'd be the last to do so—after they finished, the Circus would close down with no more shenanigans, no more crazy to keep it running. It was sad in a nostalgic way—the same way one would put away their high school belongings and start anew as an adult set for college.

But it had to end sometime.

However, when this happened, Kamui could feel that the crazy, the insanity, the chaos, the danger was all coming back. It was headed straight at them like an arrow and it'd cause them to all revert to their origins—to remember.

And it came in the form of a young man with fairy blond hair and sky blue eyes, standing at the doorway with a dark-haired companion at his side, smiling like the world was his.

Yuui Fluorite had arrived in New York.

Y had come home to the Circus.

* * *

_Sometimes the stars align for two old friends to go together. But sometimes they align for two old flames to totally combust. Wonder what the sky holds for S tonight. Friendship. Or fireworks._

_-Gossip Girl from "Summer Kind of Wonderful"_

* * *

Kurogane walked past the tables on the balcony and leaned against the wall in the more remote section of the tables. Mioru stopped a few feet away, just close enough to see the martial artist through the New York darkness, black punctured by an array of lights from all directions—in some ways like Tokyo, but in many ways not. He didn't think it'd be good for either of them if he stood too close or worse, leaned against the same wall.

For a long moment, Mioru would estimate ten minutes although it felt at least quadruple that to him, Kurogane remained silent and staring straight ahead or really anywhere that wasn't the soccer player. Mioru thought that if they weren't athletes, cigarettes right now would probably be a good way to fill the void. And if they weren't professional athletes on the public radar, pot might be an even better way to fill the awkwardness.

But finally, Kurogane grunted, "Fai made me come."

Mioru blinked—and raised an eyebrow.

Kurogane stared back blankly for a few seconds, as though wondering why Mioru wasn't responding, but then even in the darkness the martial artist reddened, scowled and sputtered, "I mean he made me come here—to Butter."

Mioru snorted and took his eyes to the dark sky, not knowing if he was laughing or crying. "So you really didn't want to fucking see me that much? I'd really love to hear exactly why you're so pissed at me, you know? I don't get how me fucking someone was so fucking awful that you don't—"

"I don't fucking care about you fucking anyone," Kurogane cut him off, eyes now boring into Mioru's. "I just fucking wish that you'd give a shit about yourself and fuck someone who cares about you—someone who you might actually give a damn about."

The soccer player snorted again and looked away in disbelief. "It's so great to see that you've decided to adopt the role of being a self-righteous asshole. It's so fucking great to have you rub into my face the fact that no one gives a damn about me while you have fucking Fai to fucking fuck whenever you want and care about him or whatever the hell it is you do—it's so great that you don't think I don't already get enough of that with the bastard Maestro and Subaru, or Watanuki and Doumeki or the married bastards on my team."

"I fucking care about you, you asshole," Kurogane snarled, grabbing the front of Mioru's shirt and slamming him into the wall, disregarding whispers beginning like wildfire from the nearby tables. Mioru's face stubbornly scowled back. "I know I don't care like you want me to, but I still fucking care and I wish you'd stop whoring yourself around just because—"

"Just because what?" Mioru demanded, shoving Kurogane away by the shoulders. "Just because I don't have a fucking significant fucking other? Just because you love Fai and not me? Just because the only way I can get off is by having a fuck buddy or a one-night stand? Just because what?"

Kurogane pushed him back up against the wall, hard. Mioru felt the stone hit the tender area between his shoulder blades and bit his tongue to stop from crying out—they were both athletes, but that never had changed the fact that whenever they'd wrestled or any other type of roughhousing, whenever they'd done that in the past, Kurogane had always had the upper hand because of his size. And sometimes the martial artist forgot how much stronger he was. "Yes, shithead," he growled. "Yes. Just because I've got Fluorite and I don't love you doesn't mean that you can go around letting any fucker stick his dick up your ass."

"Why not?" Mioru challenged icily. "Like you said, you've got Fai and you don't love me so why fucking not? It's none of your fucking business."

"Because you're fucking worth more," Kurogane replied stonily.

"Obviously not enough if you don't love me," Mioru said back sharply.

And to that, with Mioru's heart landing somewhere at his ankles, Kurogane said nothing. The martial artist seemed to want to say something, but all that he continued to do was stare back at Mioru in frustrated defiance. They both knew that Kurogane should have said something at that moment, but both of them knew that there was nothing left to be said. This was a scene that'd been replayed too many times and the lines were getting old.

And Mioru thought it was about time that he himself did something to change that. He sighed and smiled sadly up at Kurogane, taking the martial artist by clear surprise. "I know what you're trying to say about me being worth more and all. But," his smile softened, "I really wish you wouldn't. Even though I know you have Fai, when you say stuff like that to me, it makes me hope whether I want to or not, and by now, I really don't want to be in love with you any more, You-ou."

Kurogane's expression was impassive. "So what do you want me to do?"

Mioru leaned against the railing and threw his head back, staring at the sky and balancing tears at the edge of his eyes. "Fuck if I know."

But suddenly, the martial artist had his hands on Mioru's shoulders, and their faces were breaths apart. Mioru was looking straight into Kurogane's, clear, ruby red eyes, every line and plane of his perfect face, lit only by the sparse lights on the balcony, illuminated by the city's nightlife, surrounded by too many memories too count.

And then Kurogane kissed him.


	15. Love Is Ouch

**A/N: **So I know I haven't updated Impulse in months, but I have the chapter almost ready. It's just that I have to write it in bits and pieces at a time because the angst and mind-kill in that is major and it'll just keep getting worse until things are resolved. (After all, what would the climax of Seishiro and Subaru's love story be if it was any less the angst, amirite? -_-) But on to this chapter. So the title is after a song called "Love is Ouch" by 2NE1 and if you have time, I highly suggest looking it up with subtitles because it's an amazing song that has Mioru's situation down pat.

The chapter for Compelled is going a little bit more slowly, and I don't have as much of it done, but I'm trying. I'm back in school (and am addicted to a new drama, so sorry T_T) so this is probably going to be the pace you'll be getting from now on.

In any case, enjoy the angst.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Love Is Ouch

Mioru felt tears stream down his cheeks.

_Fuck_

Believing that he was still in love with Kurogane and knowing it, feeling it for himself as the martial artist's lips were on his, were two completely different things and Mioru couldn't remember ever being in more pain than the sharp piercing that was gripping his heart at the moment. He couldn't think of anything that had hurt him more than realizing exactly how much he still loved Kurogane by feeling the relief, the peace, the need that rushed in the minute he was kissed.

And then realizing that he could never have any of it.

It took every ounce of willpower he had and more for Mioru to punch Kurogane away, causing the martial artist to stagger backward slightly with his eyes glowing and intense. He saw the faint outline of Kurogane's shoulders heave up and down with ragged breathing even though the kiss was little more than simply lips-to-lips. But Mioru himself also couldn't seem to find enough air.

Mioru slid to the ground and thudded his head back against the outside wall of Butter, closing his eyes against the brilliantly lit New York sky and feeling hot liquid tears trickle down his face. He could still sense Kurogane standing over him, silent. "Fuck," Mioru said through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes tight. "Fuck. _Fuck_." He bowed his head against his knees. "_What the fuck am I gonna do_?" He opened his eyes, nearly unable to see at all due to the thick film of saltwater. Kurogane's outline was hazy. A laughed sob came out of Mioru's mouth. "I love you so fucking _much_."

Kurogane suddenly knelt down in front of Mioru, an odd look in those deep red eyes. Mioru swiped his tears away on the edge of his sleeve and had barely enough time to glance up before the martial artist had his fist dug into Mioru's cheek, sending the soccer player reeling for the ground.

And then they were off.

It was almost a relief. The grappling, the punching, the kicking, the slapping, the wrestling—it was all a relief to be doing something so much more familiar to both of them than what they'd tried to do just minutes ago. Neither of them knew how to solve something so fucked up—neither of them had ever dealt with emotions like that before, emotions other than simple I-want-you-and-you-want-me-so-let's-be-together-forever.

They didn't know what was supposed to happen if it was I-want-you-but-you-don't-want-me-because-you-want-someone-else-even-though-you-used-to-want-me. They didn't know how to solve that. They didn't know if it could even be solved. They didn't know who the worse one off would be. They didn't know who was supposed to solve what or how they were supposed to act around each other.

All they knew was that it hurt. And they wanted it to go away because it was unbearable and there was nothing—sprained ankles during practice, broken arms during a match, bruises during sparring, bleeding lips because of lost equipment—nothing had ever hurt more.

* * *

Yuui smiled. "Why the shocked faces? It's like all of you _didn't_ miss me to death." Without another word, Yuui shoved Subaru and Seishiro in another few seats and he and Ashura slid in. Kamui was too busy staring to notice that Yuui had reached over and started eating the crab cakes on the writer's plate. Everyone else was staring, too, and Ashura's face was almost exasperated.

The only one who didn't look surprised was Fai. There was an expression of utter serenity and bits of amusement on the violinist's face as he watched his twin steal food from Kamui's plate. "Long flight, Y?" Fai said, smiling softly as he stood slightly to lean over the table and touch lips with his brother.

The pianist grinned. "I booked the seats with the curtain so Ashura and I didn't get much sleep, but it didn't feel too long." Ashura's eyebrows mildly went up, as Seishiro blinked, seeming rather impressed (or horny) at the thought of sex on an airplane.

The conductor looked as if he was slowly doing away with the shock and the others seemed to be following suit with Karen smiling at Yuui and asking him how he stayed so fair during the entire summer. Kamui, on the other hand, was still reeling from bubbling emotions that he didn't quite know how to sort out—or what these emotions even were. At the moment, he felt them to be a mixture of frustration and anger and relief and a need to burst into tears.

He jumped in his seat a little when he felt Fuuma's large hand slip over his own, and found himself looking up into comforting syrupy gold eyes. "Leave," he whispered with a small smile. "And he'll follow you."

Kamui frowned.

Fuuma's smile turned into a grin. "I promise."

The writer gave the athlete one last glare before he was pushed up onto his feet with a pat on his ass. Looking anywhere but Yuui, he walked swiftly from the table to the back parts of the restaurant—the artistically dim-lit hall that led to the outdoor seating on the balcony. He leaned in a corner, under one of the lights and waited, thinking of how many days of abstinence he'd doom onto Fuuma if this didn't work.

He was thinking maybe a week, but from the last time the soccer player made him angry, any more than three days and Kamui found he himself would end up having to jack off, so maybe five would be all—

"My little journalist is as angsty as ever," Yuui said from the end of the hallway. Kamui's head whipped in that direction as he watched the pianist take slow steps toward him. The musician placed his body right up against Kamui's, pressing him into the wall with their hands entwined, swinging at their thighs. They were nose-to-nose.

"Why'd you come back?" Kamui asked, narrowing his eyes.

Yuui's blue eyes widened innocently. "I clearly remember you sobbing over the phone begging me to because you missed me so much."

"Bullshit," the writer said. "You know what I mean."

The pianist rolled his eyes then and let go of Kamui, moving back to lean on the opposing wall, arms folded over his chest. The air was suddenly permeated with every fiber of badass and intimidating that Yuui Fluorite had to offer. It was always an impressive sight these days to watch Yuui just be himself—just stand there and be the embodiment of every citizen's worst stereotype of a young socialite adult. "Let's just say that when you called me, I was already waiting at the airport gates with Ashura, watching the plane park."

"So you were coming back and you didn't tell any of us?" Kamui said incredulously.

Yuui raised his eyebrows lazily. "I told _you_, didn't I? When you were sobbing over the phone, I told you that I'd be back soon, remember?"

"Asshole," Kamui snarled. "You didn't even tell Fai?"

"He was the only one who didn't seem surprised to see me—I don't know why the hell everyone else is."

Kamui let out a sound of mirth. "He's your fucking twin, Yuui. He probably developed immunity to your insanity in the womb or something. Either that or you messaged him with some weird twin telepathy."

"Is _that_ what happens when you go at it with Fuuma the same time your brother is blowing the Maestro's horn? Goodness, I should try that sometime—see if I can do a mental foursome if Fai and You-ou and Ashura and I time it just right—"

"Why are you such a fucking _bitch_ these days?" Kamui almost yelled.

Suddenly, Yuui had closed the distance between them, pale arms on Kamui's shoulders and breath breezing over Kamui's lips. The pianist smiled sadly, sincerely, for once. "I know you think I've changed. But, K? I haven't. Everyone else just has. _You_ have."

Kamui swallowed, throat tight and fists balled. "Then maybe you should, too. Because you know what? Even though sometimes I still want to be, I'm not K, anymore. And you're not Y. You're Yuui Fluorite, pianist of the Sakurazuka orchestra and I'm Kamui Sumeragi, editor-in-chief of Yuuko Ichihara's stateside and Japanese magazine. We're not Y and K. We can't be them anymore."

Yuui simply smiled derisively. His voice was a frightening whisper, completely at odds with the words that next fell out of his mouth. "Whether you like it or not, we'll always be Y and K. I won't ever let it be any other way. I won't ever let any of us forget."

Unconsciously, Kamui stepped back—stepped away from the pianist until his back hit the wall. He didn't know why, but Yuui was truly scaring him right now—there was a sense of danger, a sense of something that told Kamui, prodded at him, to walk away. It wasn't dangerous to the point where his instincts screamed at him to _run_ away, but he was being told that if he walked away right now, worse things could be easily avoided.

He was also being told that he _definitely_ wanted what was coming to be avoided. But he was frozen, eyes held in complete capture by the icy blue in Yuui's.

Suddenly, Yuui broke off their gaze to glance amusedly toward the door that led to the outdoor seating. "Wow, look at that. Seishiro's plan is completely going great, isn't it?"

Kamui zoomed in onto what Yuui was looking at. And then he found himself screaming,

_"I'm going to have to cover this up from the press again you motherfucking tabloid-attracting dipshits!" _

_

* * *

_

Kamui's scream had not only attracted more stares than Mioru and Kurogane had already been pulling, but the writer's fit had also summoned the rest of Seishiro's dinner company to come running out to the scene of the fight. By this point, Mioru had felt bruises covering everywhere but his face, and he himself had specifically avoided aiming for the martial artist's face as well—it was a point of etiquette that they'd developed for each other now that they were public figures not to leave evidence on the focal point of most photos.

It took the three who towered over six feet, Fuuma, Sorata, and Seiichiro, to stop Kurogane and pull him away with the two soccer players holding the martial artist close to their bodies and Seiichiro standing in front of Kurogane, arms outstretched.

That left Ashura and Seishiro to hold onto Mioru, who was trying his best to look away from the unforgettable expression on Kurogane's face—in his eyes. It was an expression of complete frustration—almost desperate and too angry to be described. But the reason it was so haunting was because there was confusion in his eyes—confusion as to what or who the frustration and desperation and anger was supposed to be directed.

The whispers were so loud it would have hardly made a difference if the socialites around them were to begin shouting at each other. Mioru could practically hear the cogs and gears beginning to turn in the Maestro's mind—all of this publicity was obviously going to put a considerable damper on his business and Seishiro probably loved money and business and dominating everyone right under Subaru.

Mioru saw that Seishiro's eyes detected Kamui and Yuui and Fai's mouths immediately start to open. "Don't even fucking start," the conductor said softly, danger and threat lacing every fiber of his voice. "We're not talking about this hear—tonight, we're not talking about this at all. No, you know what? We're not talking about this _ever_. But if you think you're going to explode, come to me on your own, as in individually, and we can talk until you're practically orgasming from satisfaction. Does everyone fucking comprehend?"

No one spoke a word.

"Good," Seishiro continued, with his voice instantly regaining the signature irritatingly pleasant quality. "Now, Senryuu—you'll take Mioru back to your place and cool him down and make sure his wounds are bad enough that he can't train, thus giving the media more ammo even though they've fucking got an atomic bomb at this point. And Fai, you're going to lock Kurogane up in a tower for all eternity. Yuui, you'll be at my office bright and early tomorrow morning without Ashura. And Kamui, if all of this isn't covered in cement by tonight or before the press gets hold of it, I will have your ass up for sale before Fuuma can fuck it for the last time."

The conductor smiled graciously. "Now, I'm going to clear my head with a good fuck." He whipped his arm tightly around Subaru's waist and dragged the sputtering trumpeter back into the restaurant and supposedly into the elevator that lead to Butter's parking garage.

Once Seishiro left, everyone's eyes immediately went to Mioru and he felt his face flame. Obviously no one would think of blaming Kurogane—after all, he was part of the Circus, inducted when he'd gotten with Fai and since he was with Fai, happily so, no one would that Kurogane would have anything to fight about, to cause trouble over. They'd all automatically think about Mioru, the poor captain of their country's soccer team, pining after a martial artist who'd never love him because they all still remembered how much of a fucking jerk Mioru had been and probably still was.

Well—it wasn't like their way of thinking was wrong—it was quite dead center on the target.

Karen sighed. "C'mon. Let's get moving before Seishiro comes back actually mad and shoots us all in the head." She tilted her head toward Seiichiro and Fuuma and Sorata released Kurogane. The martial artist remained unmoving, no longer staring at Mioru and not quite staring at anything concrete.

And because Mioru couldn't tear his eyes away, he was dealt the double blow of watching Fai silently step through Fuuma and Sorata to stand beside Kurogane, discreetly slipping his hand into the martial artist's larger one. Just because of that—just because of that one tiny gesture, no caressing thumbs, no hand squeezing, just a slip and intertwined fingers had Kurogane somehow standing straighter, his aura calmer, his expression regaining control, his stance regaining composure.

Fai could do all that for Kurogane just by holding his hand.

It was more than Mioru had _ever_ done for Kurogane—Mioru doubted if it was even in his ability to have been able to do that much for Kurogane.

"Do you want to go now?"

Mioru's head whirled around, startled at the soft voice. Senryuu was looking down at him with raised eyebrows, concern hiding in the silver-blue glow. The soccer player suddenly realized that he hadn't noticed how the others had mostly started to head downstairs to their cars and that he and Senryuu were the only ones left in the dark corner of the outdoor seating—with the socialites seated nearby seemingly having returned to their respective meals after most likely growing bored of watching for too long.

Or perhaps once the Maestro had left, there was no longer much to watch.

Mioru took advantage of his and Senryuu's close proximity and leaned into the assistant's side wearily. "Yeah—let's go." He waited for Senryuu to start moving only to realize after moments passed, that the assistant had frozen slightly. The athlete glanced up and slowly straightened—of course it was weird to lean on someone you were only fuck buddies with. Mioru might be tired and sore and bruised (and have a bleeding lip and cheek), but Senryuu was probably tired too and there was a great chance that the assistant had to go to work the next day even if it was Saturday because Seishiro was a douche like that.

Only now, because of the trouble Mioru had caused, Senryuu had been ordered to patch Mioru up and take the athlete home even if the assistant probably just wanted to get some shut-eye or drink or club or something that normal, not insane young adults did on Friday nights that he could no longer do because he had to take care of Mioru.

But the only expression on Senryuu's face was surprise as their eyes met. After a few seconds of Mioru staring, however, concern swept the surprise from Senryuu's expression. He frowned. "You're really that tired? Is it because of the training you had earlier?"

"No—I just—never mind," Mioru sighed. He tugged on Senryuu's sleeve. "Let's just go before I fuck something up again." He began walking toward the elevator, pressing the door-open button to hold for Senryuu.

The assistant slipped in and as the floors dinged by, he said quietly, "You have to stay awake long enough for me to make sure your bruises and all are all right, okay?"

Mioru blew out through his teeth. "I know Seishiro told you to patch me up, but I've played soccer since I was like four—this much, I can patch myself up," he said, motioning to his body. "You should just get some sleep—you already have to drag my ass back to your place, remember?"

A ding told them that they'd reached the parking garage. The elevator doors slid open and Mioru stepped out, determined not to look at Senryuu for reasons he himself really couldn't name. He knew what Senryuu's car looked like, having seen it before at the assistant's apartment, so he strode on without looking back, searching up and down the rows for the vehicle.

"Mioru," Senryuu called. "Mioru—would you stop walking for three seconds so I can just tell you where my car is?"

"I'll figure it out myself," Mioru yelled back, walking faster and faster. "Maybe if you're lucky, I'll get lost or something and then you can just leave and I'll sleep here for tonight."

Senryuu's voice suddenly went up in volume. "Mioru—just stop fucking walking and listen to me."

"Stop fucking talking to me and—"

Senryuu grabbed Mioru's wrist mid-sentence and spun the athlete around, pressing him into the nearest car and covering his mouth with Senryuu's own lips. The assistant drew away only after mere seconds and sighed with a tired smile. "Is this seriously the only way I can get you to listen to me?"

Mioru scowled. "Look—"

Senryuu suddenly attacked him with another kiss, this time enforcing tongue. Once the assistant drew away, Mioru's childish scowl deepened stubbornly, but he remained silent this time. "Thank you," Senryuu said with raised eyebrows, even though his tone still sounded somewhat amused. "Now that I've got your attention, will you please just stop running around the garage so I can show you where my car is, get some medicine on those cuts and bruises, and put you to bed so you can get up tomorrow and not be too tired to enjoy your weekend off of training?"

"I know you have to babysit me, but you don't have to pretend that you're peachy keen on it, you know," Mioru muttered.

Senryuu sighed, his smile exasperated. "Why would I pretend?"

Mioru's head whipped up and he blinked with wide eyes. "Huh?" Later on, he'd look back on this and be fully aware that he had sounded like a complete jackass or at least a high-leveled idiot. "I thought you just wanted to fuck me?" And in all honesty, in his defense, Mioru sincerely thought that with adults, the whole sex friends things was more or less a business transaction because only teenagers flirted while being fuck buddies and being fuck buddies when you were a teenager wasn't a smart idea in the first place considering that was an age where the heart followed the body so quickly, sometimes the body wasn't even given chance to hide its tracks.

He'd never considered that being sex friends meant they were actually _friends_.

Moreover, he clearly remembered Subaru telling him that Senryuu liked working behind the scenes because the assistant greatly disliked the socialite world, and with that information, Mioru could easily imagine Senryuu as the type of wealthy-but-not-overly-so young man that had a steady-girlfriend-waiting-for-the-walk-to-the-altar and a horde of equally smart, semi-wealthy, straight friends to go with this picture, topped off with a well-to-do, supportive family.

And then Mioru would be Scotch-taped somewhere to the side, ready to be flung off the page the minute Senryuu thought it was too boring or just felt like another partner or maybe thought it was time to walk down that altar. Since the thing with Kurogane, Mioru had had a lot of straight guys do the one-night-to-a-few-nights thing with him just because they didn't feel like stressing over the complications that came with doing the same with a girl, condom or no, but Mioru didn't fancy getting diseased, so it was definitely condom.

Senryuu blinked in response, looking slightly taken aback. "We can't fuck _and_ be friends?" he asked mildly.

"No," Mioru said instantly, before taking in Senryuu's raised eyebrows and realizing his, what, thirteenth mistake of the night? "No, I mean, yeah, we can definitely fuck and be friends—I just didn't know if you'd want to."

The assistant merely laughed and opened the door of the passenger seat, holding it aloft. "Get in," he smiled. "Before the blood on your face dries too bad and I have to scrape it off with a fork."

"But it works," Mioru whined, as he slid into the car. "That's what I do for soccer whenever I get scrapes."

Senryuu went around the front and stepped into his own seat, sighing playfully. "Unsanitary—is that why your face is like this now?"

Mioru snorted. "My face is sexy as fuck right now." Senryuu's eyes remained turned as he twisted in his seat and backed out of the parking space, but the athlete watched his eyebrows rise amusedly. "Minus the blood, I s'pose."

The assistant just smiled again. "I'd say even with the blood."

* * *

Fai watched the faint outline of Kurogane's bare, bent back—the martial artist was slumped forward, seated on the edge of the bed, head most likely in his large hands.

Almost the very moment they'd passed through the doorway, before Fai could think to ask what had happened, Kurogane had seized the violinist and tumbled him to the sheets. It'd been rough, it'd been angry, it'd been amazing and mind-breaking to the point where Fai literally couldn't see straight seconds after climaxing, and thus, Fai had concluded that whatever had happened with Mioru must've happened very badly.

Because Kurogane usually did his best work when he was frustrated or angry, and tonight, the sex had happened as if there would be no tomorrow. Fai could always prove how great the sex was in proportion to how upset Kurogane was if the violinist could still feel the ache after being folded up like a cell phone—until his knees were past his ears.

And of course he knew that Kurogane had kissed Mioru.

Fai had had sex with countless people—he'd learned to tell where their mouths had been before they kissed Fai. Sometimes they'd smoked, sometimes they'd eaten, sometimes they'd brushed their teeth, sometimes they'd drunken alcohol. And sometimes, they'd kissed someone else.

Was he angry?

No. Even if he wanted to be or thought he should be, he wasn't sure he could generate any anger.

Maybe it was because Fai knew that Kurogane hadn't cheated on him, and even if the martial artist had, if it was with Mioru, it wasn't really cheating. Fai knew that Kurogane and Mioru were still trying to figure out that feeling that was bubbling and boiling within both of them—something like a love they'd once had, but not quite, but still strong, but not as strong, but they wanted to be together, but they didn't, but they did, but they couldn't, but they want each other, but not really—

And until they figured it out, even if Kurogane had sex with Mioru, Fai wouldn't really mind.

The problem was—Kurogane did.

Fai knew that right now the martial artist wasn't sleeping even though they'd just had earth-shattering-quality sex and it was a little bit past three in the morning because Kurogane thought that kissing Mioru had been a wrong against the violinist. And that Kurogane was either mentally punching himself repeatedly in the face, or just figuring out a way to beg-on-his-knees-Kurogane-style.

So the musician decided that even though it'd be missing out on some fun, he should give the athlete a break.

"Kuro-pon?" Fai sat up and dragged himself across the bed, sheets falling from his naked body.

Kurogane grunted half-heartedly.

Fai leaned against the martial artist so that they sat back-to-back. He rested his head between the athlete's shoulder blades, and smiled into the semi-darkness—punctured only by the city lights drifting through the curtains and the glow of the digital clocks on their nightstands. "Go to sleep."

There was a pause.

Then the athlete slowly turned around, taking Fai in his arms, rubies boring into sapphires. The violinist raised his eyebrows, a half-smile tugging one side of his mouth, and whether it was seconds or minutes or hours that passed, Fai knew that Kurogane understood now. Fai gave his own understanding and the unnecessary forgiveness that Kurogane wanted just with this connecting gaze, and he knew that Kurogane understood when the athlete fell back onto the pillows, pulling Fai along with him.

* * *

As he shuttled back and forth from the kitchen, getting out cotton pads and different kinds of cut medicine and Band-Aids, Senryuu wasn't sure if he should be sad or worried or just shocked in general. He knew that the sadness was inevitable because even though the others seemed to think that Mioru and Kurogane's problem was just an obstacle that needed to be jumped over like they themselves had all done during high school and college, Senryuu thought that Mioru seemed to have been jumping over these obstacles his entire life. He felt as though Mioru had been jumping for so long that now all the soccer player could do was try his best to clamber over the remaining ones—even though there were so many.

And watching it, Senryuu wanted more than anything to fly Mioru over them—over anything that'd hurt him.

He set down the bowl of water on the kitchen table and moved his eyes to the athlete. Mioru was staring into his lap, bruised knuckles folded together loosely. Senryuu took the soaked towel from the warm water and sat on a chair across from Mioru, their knees touching lightly. The assistant leaned over and washed the dried blood from Mioru's cheekbones, lips, under his eyes, the bridge of his nose.

"You're really nice, you know that?" Mioru said glumly, eyes still downcast.

Here it came—the reason Senryuu had been so shocked tonight.

He grinned. "Once you get to know me better—I'm a terrible guy."

Mioru snorted. "Not as bad as me, obviously."

Senryuu had been so shocked because he'd found out that talking to Mioru, after just a little while of getting settled with the athlete, was easier than breathing. It was doubly shocking because of the fact that earlier Senryuu had come to the conclusion that if he couldn't even talk well to people in general, sometimes for business, sometimes people he didn't even like, how would he be able to talk to someone like Mioru?

"You're a bad person?" Senryuu asked lightly, unscrewing the cap on the cut medicine. He covered the opening with a cotton pad and rocked the bottle upside down and right side up until he felt cool wetness against the cotton in his fingers.

Mioru winced when the pad touched the cut on his cheek. "Well, I'm definitely not a good person, considering I just kissed my supposed-to-be-best-friend who's been in a relationship for four years and even if I don't think me kissing him messed it up, it still makes me a pretty shitty person, don't you think?"

Senryuu worked on the rest of the cuts in silence for a few minutes, dabbing them dry and clean and painting on liquid Band-Aids on the ones worse off. "Did you really kiss him or did he kiss you?"

For the first time since they'd reached the apartment, Mioru's head snapped up and his eyes met Senryuu's—wildly and wide and almost scared. "I—" Teeth dug into his lip and his shoulders hunched over his body slightly. The athlete's bruised hands clenched in his lap. "I don't want to think that he kissed me," he said hoarsely. "I don't want to think that way because I'm trying not to hope. Even if I know there's no"—his fists tightened, and his expression contorted—"_no_ hope at all, thinking that way will _make_ me hope and I don't want to. I don't want to hurt like that anymore."

Senryuu wasn't sure why, but at Mioru's words, there were fingers wrapping around his heart, crawling over it and digging shards of ice deep down the fissure line of a wound that he thought had healed long ago. But he was sure that whatever that reason was, it didn't change the fact that he hurt when Mioru hurt.

"You really love him," Senryuu said softly. "To keep loving him even though it hurts so much—you really love him."

A sad smile tugged at Mioru's mouth. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Since when is loving someone stupid?"

"Since the someone doesn't love you back," Mioru muttered.

Senryuu fell silent, his thoughts beginning to whirl back through the years, all the way back to high school, to when he'd thought that loving Mioru from afar was enough, to when he'd settled for fucking Fai with the socialite-sized-allowance his parents' gave him—imagining Mioru's face and calling the athlete's name when he came. "It's stupid, isn't it?" he said quietly.

"Thinking of that kid you wanted in high school?" Mioru asked, smiling softly. He sighed. "We're idiots, aren't we?"

Senryuu chuckled humorlessly. "Total idiots."

Mioru's smile broadened, a flash of teeth against his lips. "You know, you're really good with this first aid crap. You must've really paid attention in health class."

"Why?" Senryuu tossed the last of the Band-Aid wrappers into the trash bin and began packing up the cotton pads and medicine bottles. "Did you sleep through yours?"

The soccer player snorted. "Well, it's not like I could've had sex during the class, so obviously I slept."

"Really?" Senryuu leaned sideways, elbow on the table, cheek propped against his palm. "I would've thought you'd do that clichéd blowjob under the desk thing."

Mioru's cheeks puffed out, but the movement most likely stretched out the wounds—the athlete winced moments later and settled for sticking out his tongue in an offended pout. "It's not clichéd. It's a classic."

"So you did it?"

"How fucking dumb do you think I am?" Mioru rolled his eyes and Senryuu grinned. "God, you're a pain in the ass."

"You're that fragile?" Senryuu said under his breath, grin widening.

Mioru stared at him for a second, digesting his words before he promptly stood up and commenced to smack Senryuu until the assistant was standing up and backing away, arms shielding his face, laughing.

* * *

_Bwitch here late Friday night or early Saturday morning—whichever you'd like to call it._

_I just thought I'd drop by on your late night clubbing tryst or maybe interrupting your sweet shut-eye perhaps made sweet by not shutting your eyes to stare at that special someone sleeping next to you?_

_Ah, disgustingly mushy, I know. But what can I say? We all get sentimental with age._

_So yes, I'm here, typing away not to give you news of the latest hook-up, make-up, or break-up, but simply because I felt like talking to my butterflies. And to my darlings, I want to ask a simple question:_

_Why do we love even if it hurts so much?_

_Is it because even if we swear we'll stop loving that person, we look into his or her eyes and find ourselves falling all over again?_

_Is it because whenever they're treating us like shit, just at that moment, scenes of them kissing you and laughing with you surface in your mind's eye?_

_Is it because of that feeling of life, of light, of warmth that you get when you're doing nothing but talking to them—flirting and bantering and teasing?_

_Is it because you can't suppress those feelings of wanting to protect, wanting to hold, wanting to cradle them when you see them getting hurt by the one _they_ love?_

_Is it because of that inevitable desire of wanting them to be happy, wanting to give them the world, wanting them to never be hurt by love themselves, regardless of how much you'll be wounded?_

_Or maybe it's because you know that there's no point in being in love unless it hurts sometimes. Because a love that doesn't make you go "ouch" every so often definitely isn't a love worth having._

_Huh—maybe this wasn't as simple as I thought._

_-My W is Wondering about love_


	16. My Heaven

**A/N: **I swear I have the next chapters of Compelled and Impulse going, it's just that they're going super slowly.

Y'know when you first start dating, people say you go through that honeymoon phase (I've only dated once, guys, nerdy-Asian-sophomore here)? Well, right now I'm experiencing that phase with Senryuu-and Senryuu/Mioru. I'm falling in love with them because I haven't really had that much time with their characters up until now, whereas I've been through hell and back with all the other couples, which means even though I'm not necessarily bored with them, I'm not as pumped up about them as I am with Mioru and Senryuu. Even writing Kurogane into these scenes now can be kind of draggy. Don't get me wrong, I still love them, it's just that kind of new-toy-novelty has worn off of the other characters and now the new toy is the Senryuu/Mioru coupling.

"My Heaven" is a song by Big Bang (who I'm sure many of you know). For those of you who don't (but should), Big Bang is a Kpop group, but now they've branched into Jpop, and "My Heaven" is actually one of their first Japanese singles (although there's a Korean version, too) so I highly suggest you listen to it, take a peep at the English Subs before having a go at this chapter.

But in any case, enjoy some Senryuu/Mioru-adorableness-time.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: My Heaven

Seishiro sighed, eyes closed, trying to will away his headache. "Stop squirming, Subaru. You were the one who told me to take a nap instead of going binge drinking for lunch, which you know I'm so very fond of." He readjusted himself, stretching out his legs on the couch and folding his hands over his chest. His pillow moved again.

"I think I'm losing circulation in my thighs," Subaru said, momentarily lifting the conductor's head from his lap to rearrange his legs. He combed his fingers through Seishiro's hair. "And I'm sure you knew all too well that I meant you should take a nap on our bed. Like a normal person. Instead of on our sofa using me as your pillow because now I don't think I'll ever be able to walk again."

Seishiro murmured, "You'll live," and continued to pretend his headache was a figment of his imagination.

The ache had just begun to ease when there was a loud snap and the conductor lifted one eyelid irritably in time to see Mioru rush out of the hall that led down to the elevators, most likely just finished the last of training clean-up, freshly showered and still slightly red in the face from the exercise. He stopped at the kitchen and began to pull out various kinds of novelty crackers that Seishiro had had imported from various countries for Subaru to stuff his face with.

_Expensive_ novelty crackers.

Like those sunflower ones.

Mioru was stuffing the crackers into his duffel bag, along with a couple of tiny just-as-expensive-and-foreign bottles of scotch that Seishiro had had imported so he could stuff his own face.

"Why are you expressing the intent to eat me out of house and home for the tenth time this month?" Seishiro asked.

"I'm going to Senryuu's tonight," Mioru said, grinning like a moron and not seeming to notice the aura of death surrounding the Maestro.

Seishiro snorted, and then tried to hide the grimace that instantly threatened to surface as the movement jolted the fragilely throbbing pain in his head. "Your boy-crush?"

It was Mioru's turn to snort as he slung the strap of his bag around his shoulder. "Hilarious—he's just a friend who fucks me. You guys know that."

Subaru coughed and exchanged a tiny smiling glance down at Seishiro. The Maestro simply internally snorted (since he didn't want to upset his head again), because even though he still didn't hold much esteem in anyone's love other than his and Subaru's, he was pretty sure that "just a friend who fucks me" wasn't supposed to make someone smile that brightly, or flush that deeply, or look that fucking happy, or steal that much of someone's food.

And because he was Seishiro, he was too annoyed by Mioru's springiness not to say something to puncture the balloon of fucking joy. "Have you talked to Kurogane yet? It's been a month."

Mioru stopped, midway to the elevator leading down outside. He faced away, expression hidden.

And then he spoke—quietly and almost peacefully. "Actually, I'm supposed to meet up with him tonight." Mioru turned his head just so he met eyes with Seishiro. "He called me a few days ago and said that he'd come to Senryuu's place if that was what I wanted."

"How many hours of sex did that take Fai, I want to know," Seishiro said sarcastically. Subaru frowned down at those words. "But whatever the reason, I'm glad he's finally decided to get up off his ass and stop being a prick about all of this. I was starting to wonder if I should start giving Fai pamphlets on putting your dog down."

Mioru's voice was small. "I just hope we don't start fighting again."

"If push comes to shove," Seishiro continued dryly, "Senryuu will probably punch Kurogane out the window before he can start a fight."

The soccer player gave him an odd look. "Senryuu will probably just let us duke it out. He's not my boyfriend or anything, so it's not like he'll think it's any of his business."

Subaru coughed again.

Seishiro sighed. "Just go and get out of here before my head combusts, please."

Mioru rolled his eyes and slipped through the elevator doors.

"It's kind of cute," Subaru said, amused.

"Absolutely adorable to the point of being vomit-worthy," Seishiro murmured, reclosing his eyes. "But as long as Mioru's out of this building as much as possible, the happier I am."

Subaru smiled knowingly. "You _like_ him, don't you?"

"Who?"

"Mioru."

"I hate the little prick with all my heart, all my mind, and all my soul, I assure you." Seishiro opened his eyes briefly to flash a brilliant, Maestro-perfected-grin up at Subaru.

Suddenly, Subaru's smiling lips were inches away from the conductor's, green eyes dancing down at him. "I'd believe you, except I know you."

* * *

When Senryuu opened the door, Mioru flung himself into his arms with all the force and intent of tumbling both of them to the ground. But as the assistant continued to consistently and mysteriously prove, he was stronger than Mioru would ever expect and not only remained upright with Mioru thrown into his arms, but he also managed to somehow simultaneously spin and pin the soccer player against the wall.

Even though just this morning, Mioru had easily finished his work out sets without losing much energy, he found himself abruptly breathless just from this little jostling. And, for some reason, having Senryuu's face so close caused whatever breathing ability that _had_ returned to be completely uneven and useless anyhow.

They weren't even kissing.

Regardless, Mioru couldn't stop the grin from breaking onto his face as he looked up into that unforgettable silver-blue, somehow luminescent even in the daytime. "Guess what?" he breathed.

Senryuu raised his eyebrows, and Mioru felt the assistant's fingers thread with his own.

"I stole like half of Seishiro's fucking expensive, foreign cracker collection—the one that he has imported so Subaru can eat himself sick." Mioru stuck out his tongue, his tone triumphant.

Senryuu tilted his head. "I don't like crackers."

"I fucking love them, though," Mioru continued excitedly. "That's why I brought them here—I'm stocking them up with you so I can eat them whenever I come over, and when I'm at Seishiro's, I'll just eat what's there. I only stole half, after all."

"Fuck, you're weird," Senryuu laughed.

Mioru kicked him in the shins, and Senryuu collapsed to the ground, laughing all the way and tightening his hold on Mioru's wrists with the intent of tumbling down together. But not without Mioru squirming and hitting, breathless with his own laughter as Senryuu merely tightened his arms. The assistant fell flat on his back with Mioru atop him.

The athlete shrugged teasingly. "We might as well do it right now—this is the classic position to start foreplay, y'know?"

Senryuu grinned. "I feel like making you cry tonight."

Mioru snorted. "Well, then I hope you feel like making it mind-blowing, hours-lasting, brain-fucking, amazing, unforgettable sex, because you know I don't cry otherwise."

"I thought you cried if you love the person, too," the assistant mentioned.

Mioru laughed, touching the top of his head against Senryuu's chest. "Yeah, 'cause we're totally married." His eyes glittered. "So make me cry tonight, then—the way you did on our honeymoon, dear," he said sarcastically.

"Christ," Senryuu made a face. "You're going to make me puke worse than Senryuu does after his binge drinking fits."

Mioru gave a small smile, laying his cheek against the beating of Senryuu's heart. "Then fuck me harder than Seishiro fucks Subaru after his binge drinking fits."

"If I did that," Senryuu said amusedly, "I'd probably break you in half."

The soccer player simply kept that tiny smile as he felt his breath leave him again. "You said you felt like making me cry tonight, didn't you?"

* * *

It was early in the evening by the time they'd finished and Mioru had fallen asleep, the area around his eyes puffy and damp. With the months passing gradually toward autumn, the sun was beginning to set earlier and rise later. The air hadn't yet started to cool down, but there hadn't been any more heat waves for the past two weeks.

The soccer player's head was rolling off of the pillow, landing right up against Senryuu's waist. The assistant still couldn't sleep soundly even after all these times of spending the night together—he sat up in bed, unclothed, leaning back against the headboard and staring into the semi-darkness. Mioru's hair tickled the skin of his hip.

He sighed and gently cupped the slighter man's head in a single hand, shifting Mioru back onto the athlete's own pillow, and wiping the rest of the leftover tears with his thumbs. There were still some tracks running down Mioru's cheeks, and Senryuu thought that once he thought Mioru had slept enough, he'd wash Mioru down with a wet towel—he didn't want Mioru to shower so late at night and get a cold right in the middle of training.

At the moment though, Senryuu was trying to ready himself for Kurogane's arrival. Even if he was sure that the martial artist would rather kill himself than step foot in Senryuu's home, the assistant would rather that if they were going to fight again that they fought in front of Senryuu so he could knock out the martial artist's teeth.

But Senryuu wasn't stupid. He knew that the instant Mioru saw Kurogane, the soccer player's face would light up and all thoughts of the fact that this was Senryuu's home, all thoughts of the sex they'd just had, all thoughts of Senryuu would fly out the window, and even if it was replaced with thoughts of pain and heartache, Mioru would focus on that instead of Senryuu because Mioru loved Kurogane.

And even though Senryuu knew that what he'd felt for Mioru during high school was just an obsessive crush borne by the fact that it was the only light in his life with the rest filled by his parents' ambitious and uncaring darkness, Senryuu also knew that now—right now, these past few weeks—he knew that now he was falling in love with Mioru for real.

Perhaps made stronger still by what he thought he'd previously felt for Mioru all those years ago.

And furthermore, he knew that this was just going to be cementing-his-heart-after-the-Mioru-earthquake-version-2.0 because once Mioru healed himself away from Kurogane, he'd leave Senryuu and look for a real relationship. He'd look for another socialite. He'd look for someone who hadn't given up their dream.

He'd look for someone who wasn't a murderer.

The phone rang.

Senryuu reached over to his nightstand and put the receiver against his ear. "Yes?" he said in English.

"Good evening, Mr. Kurohyou," the penthouse receptionist's voice flowed smoothly, quiet and low, "You have a young man down here who's requesting to be sent up to your apartment. Is he your guest?"

"Yes, he is. Send him up—thanks," Senryuu finished and put the phone down.

Mioru had begun to stir from the phone's loud trilling. His eyes opened and he rubbed at them loosely, licking his fingers and wetting away the tear tracks on his cheeks. "Ugh," he said, voice hoarse from sleep. "I forgot why I hated crying, but now I remember. Makes me look like I really got raped, and it makes my face all gross." He sat up slowly and laid his head on Senryuu's shoulder.

Wonderful—heart-aneurysms to add to the stress.

Senryuu bit his lip and ignored the painful thudding in his chest. He played it teasingly—shrugging his shoulders to nudge Mioru's contact away. "You look fine. You're going to shower in the morning, anyway."

Mioru pouted. "I'm going to shower now—it's disgusting."

"You'll get a cold," Senryuu said. "And then you won't be able to train."

The athlete laughed. "That's only if you're, like, three. I've showered late plenty of times—and it's not nighttime yet. It's seven."

"It's seven twenty-six."

Mioru rolled his eyes, smiling. "Seven-thirty—wow, it must be past my bedtime."

Senryuu pushed his shoulder with his palm. "Oy—I'm being serious, here," but he found his face breaking into a smile as well. "If you catch a cold, I'm the one who's going to have his ass broken in by Seishiro."

"That's hot." The athlete whistled. "Make sure you get that video-taped so I can use it to jack off later, 'kay?"

The assistant laughed, and shook his head.

Mioru jumped from the bed and stretched his arms out, yawning. "So who called you? Did Sakurazuka call to dump some more paperwork on you?"

Senryuu also stood, walking around the bed to stand nearer to the soccer player. "No," he said quietly. "Actually, that was the front desk downstairs, calling me to tell me that I had a guest."

Mioru froze and met Senryuu's eyes. "It's—?"

"Yeah."

And just like Senryuu had predicted, the light flew into Mioru's eyes and when he spoke next, even the tone of his voice changed. "How long has it been since they sent him up?"

"It's been a few minutes since I told them to do that—but I doubt they've actually put him on the elevator until just now. This is a penthouse building so most of the people who live here are the younger generation of socialites and their corresponding parents of the older generation expect their heirs to be protected so Kurogane probably had to fill in some visitor's forms," Senryuu explained. "They put guests through security check, too."

"Okay, then," Mioru said, looking around wildly. "Okay—okay—so," he bustled around the room, "Senryuu, can I borrow your shirt?"

He hated how just hearing that voice say his name made his chest hurt. "Sure—but why? You brought your own change of clothes, and the ones you were wearing before aren't even dirty."

Mioru offered him a slight grin. "I don't feel like putting on pants, and you're taller than me so your shirts hide enough." Senryuu blinked as Mioru pulled his head through the assistant's gray t-shirt and then jumped into a pair of boxers. The athlete clapped his hands in conclusion. "Okay, good to go. I look all right?" he glanced at Senryuu briskly with raised eyebrows.

Dark hair tousled and cheeks flushed from the recent tumble in bed. Senryuu's gray t-shirt was loose and soft and slightly scruffy on his frame. The boxers hung low and easy on his hips, threatening to fall off at the least amount of movement. His skin glowed vital and alive in the evening dimness. There was hope and nervousness illuminating the golden sienna of his eyes as his gaze bore into Senryuu.

"Yeah," Senryuu answered softly. "You look all right."

Mioru was beautiful.

The athlete snorted. "Thanks—I mean, we both know I look like shit right now, but thanks for saying I look all right." He clasped his hand over Senryuu's and squeezed briefly before letting go and walking to the front door. "If we start fighting, I swear we'll take it outside," Mioru called from the living room. "I won't let Kurogane break anything."

Except for Mioru's heart—because Senryuu would rather all of his furniture, all of his lamps and glass tabletops and vases and kitchenware and alcohol and windowpanes and laptops and TVs and stereos break, if it meant Mioru could be happy and stop hurting and be with Kurogane. Even if it meant breaking Fai and breaking himself, as long as Mioru was happy, Senryuu didn't care, because for the first time in his life, Senryuu cared about someone—about another human being, and for the first time, Senryuu could talk without stuttering and falling silent. Senryuu could laugh and could make this person laugh.

For the first time in his life Senryuu didn't think that the biggest mistake his parents ever made was giving birth to him.

But then there was a knock and he heard Mioru undo the lock and swing the door open. There was a moment of silence before Senryuu heard footsteps and bustling movement leading into the living room. He had resolved seconds ago to stay in the bedroom and only listen in to whatever they would talk about, but he couldn't help himself and sat down at his desk—he knew that it was at this angle that a person could oversee what went on in the living room just outside.

* * *

The soccer player waited for Kurogane to speak first.

"Did you just have sex with him?"

Mioru remained indifferent. "And if I did?"

Kurogane's shoulders shrugged.

"Did you want to watch or something?" Mioru asked.

"As creepy as I still think he is, I won't lie and say that wouldn't be hot as fuck," Kurogane said coolly.

A hint of a smile broke onto Mioru's face. "That'd be voyeurism, Kurogane."

The martial artist snorted. "Like you're so legal."

To be honest, Mioru at the moment was so shocked it was all he could do to keep on speaking like this. He had expected for Kurogane to come flying at him through the door, and even if the martial artist hadn't, Mioru still had expected for them to go at it again—screaming until they lost their voices. But instead, they were sitting face-to-face talking as pleasantly as if it were afternoon tea. And while it was true that Mioru's heart was still doing those painful contractions, but he found that he was breathing easier and the thought of being unable to touch Kurogane didn't make him so broken that he wanted to vomit.

Perhaps time really did heal wounds?

"You're right," Mioru said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and face propped in his hands. "I'd love to watch you and Fai—you know him and Yuui are like every gay's wet dream?"

Kurogane made a sputtering noise. "Fucking shut the hell up," he muttered.

Mioru gave an odd smile. "Fine. Just answer one question."

The martial artist waited.

"Why'd you kiss me?"

Kurogane looked away, his throat constricting tightly and he swallowed. When he spoke, it was slow and unsure—as if he was piecing the words together as he went. "If I knew the answer to that," he stared hard at the ground. "Then I wouldn't be here."

The soccer player's eyes furrowed together. "So—wait—are you here because you think _I_ fucking know why you kissed me?"

Kurogane looked up with a scowl. "I'm not a dumbass—of course you wouldn't know a fuck about it either. But there's no point in locking myself up and not seeing you while I try to figure it out either."

"You seemed to be doing fine after not seeing me for a year or so," Mioru said, unable to push away the bitterness that crept into his tone. "And when I finally showed up, you looked like you wished I hadn't."

The martial artist slammed his fist down onto the table, and Mioru jumped in his seat slightly. "Aoi, if you don't fucking tell me why you were avoiding me ever since you graduated—hopping to and from countries for fuck's sake—if you don't fucking tell me, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens."

"I just told you why," Mioru stood up, feeling his voice rise along with his temper. "I told you just now that you didn't want to see me and I knew you didn't want to see me, so I stayed out of your fucking way, fucking fuck."

Kurogane went to his feet too, scowl darker than ever. "If I didn't want to fucking see you then tell me why I looked for you all those times—tell me why I invited you over on vacations or asked you where you were or just asked you to fucking talk to me before you changed your phone number for the tenth time that month."

"You have Fai," Mioru said, hating how his voice was suddenly torn up, desperate and as if on the border of tears. "You have Fai and you don't need me and you don't want me and I didn't think that I could handle seeing you and him together everywhere which I knew you'd be if I said yes to all your calls and invitations to come over and all of that. It hurt enough seeing you two around campus and you have no idea the relief it was when he graduated and even for just a year, I could have you without him."

The silence settled in like the scent of a corpse.

Kurogane's eyes looked furious as they glowed in the soft lighting, and Mioru felt as though this could truly be the moment when the martial artist honestly was going to kill him.

"You're wrong."

Mioru blinked.

"You're wrong," Kurogane repeated in a low voice. "I have Fluorite, yeah. But I do need you and I sure as hell still want you. I'm not going to lie and tell you I love you, because I don't. We both know that I don't, and in high school, we were so fucking stupid that I don't know if I ever did love you. But you're the fucking best friend that I've ever had—you know more about me than Fluorite does, and you know me longer. You probably know me better, because you know and you've seen the parts of me that I never want to show him."

Mioru didn't want this. He didn't want to hear this. He'd been terrified to hear this. He'd been afraid that this would come up and he didn't want to hear this because he knew that it would make him hope. He'd start hoping again and then he'd get crushed, inevitably crushed, all over again and it would hurt too much. "Stop," he said softly, pleading. "Kurogane—don't." He shook his head at the martial artist's confused expression. "Don't make me hope—don't make me believe even in the tiniest chance that I can have you when you know, and I know, when we both know that there isn't."

"I want you with me," Kurogane said, eyes wild. "You have to stay with me—I need to see you."

Mioru smiled sadly. "I won't go anywhere—I can't. I'll be next to you for as long as you want me there." He bit his lip, and felt his smile fade as his eyes clouded with stinging, wet warmth. "But—it hurts. It really hurts, so," the first tears streamed down the bridge of his nose, "so, you have Fai, right? So if I have to leave all of a sudden, I'm really sorry." They suddenly began to fall faster, and thicker, and his voice shook. "If—if I disappear, I'm really sorry. I'm sorry, but if it hurts too much, and I leave, you have Fai, so you won't be sad, right?"

And then he was in Kurogane's arms, tight and warm and strong and the familiarity, the remembrance, too many memories of being ensconced in the martial artist like this, it all made the tears pour down like a thunderstorm. "Wrong again," Kurogane growled. "If you leave, I'm going to be fucking pissed. I'll be so pissed I'm going to tie you up so you can't ever leave me again. You're never going to fucking disappear and you're never fucking going to avoid me again, understand, asshole?"

Mioru wanted to pull away—he wanted to struggle and squirm and kick and punch and hit his way out of Kurogane's embrace—he wanted to so _fucking_ much.

But he couldn't. He couldn't because Kurogane reeled him in like a magnet and Mioru wanted to pull away just as much as he wanted to stay in this position for the rest of time. He wanted to pull away and he wanted to stay. He wanted Kurogane to disappear and he wanted Kurogane to always be there. He was furious at Kurogane and happy beyond belief with him. He hated Kurogane. He loved Kurogane. There was pain and pleasure in every sight, scent, touch, memory if the martial artist was concerned.

Kurogane was Mioru's hell.

Kurogane was Mioru's heaven.

Kurogane was Mioru's everything, and once your everything disappeared and became another's everything, then the only way to stop the bleeding and the hurt and the unbearable pain was to start all over again—the only thing you could do was build a new everything, build an everything from scratch and try to forget about the perfect everything you once had and that you would never have again.

"Let go," Mioru whispered, his throat on fire. "Let go of me, Kurogane."

Kurogane was silent for a second, and then, "What if I don't?"

Mioru shut his eyes futilely—the tears were already flowing freely down his cheeks because _why did the martial artist have to fucking say that? _Why did he have to say that and make it harder and harder for Mioru to stop loving him? Why would he make it hurt more for Mioru? Hearing those words and knowing that Kurogane didn't love him, knowing that the only reason Kurogane was saying those words was because Kurogane simply loved him as a friend, knowing that Kurogane probably only put up with Mioru's ridiculous moping was because the martial artist felt guilty hurt so fucking much that the soccer player's body started to shake from the force of the crying.

Obviously, Kurogane felt the trembling and he immediately released Mioru, only keeping one hand lightly on the soccer player's back. "I let go, I let go," the martial artist muttered hastily, his tone apologetic. "Sorry—I'm sorry. Just—just, don't cry, Aoi. Don't fucking cry over me."

Mioru glowered through the tears. "Then don't make me cry, dipshit. Don't be so fucking nice and maybe I won't fucking cry over you, you fucking dumbass, shitty, asshole."

Kurogane snorted softly. "I think I should go now."

"Wait," Mioru said, alarmed, "Kurogane, I didn't mean—"

The martial artist ruffled the soccer player's hair and with his knuckles, swiped lightly at the falling tears. "I know, bastard—I know. But I'm not as much of a dumbass as you think I am. You told me it hurts—and I know it hurts. I know you're not mad at me, but when it hurts, just say so and I'll give you some space."

Mioru bit his lip. "Thanks," he whispered.

"Being all emo and depressing just isn't your style," Kurogane said, crossing over to the door. "You need to hurry up and get over me so you can be a kickass jerk again."

The soccer player managed a tiny smile. "I'm working on it, You-ou."

"Get a move on," Kurogane stood in the doorway, a slight grin on his face and concern in his eyes. He looked at Mioru for a long moment before turning around and closing the door after his leave.

The instance it snapped shut, Mioru collapsed back onto the sofa, suddenly feeling as though he'd just finished playing three games in a row, with all of them going into overtime. He wiped his eyes roughly with his arm, and took a few deep breaths in and out, leaning the back of his head against the top edge of the sofa. The lights were too bright in that moment and he closed his raw eyes, imagining how amazing a few pills of Tylenol PM would be right now.

He reveled in the silence and the encompassing exhaustion, spreading throughout his body, for a few minutes. But too many sessions-in-the-janitor's-closet-and-other-school-related-locations with Kurogane had trained Mioru's ears and sixth sense too well. He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. "I don't care if you heard anything, you know. You didn't have to hide—it's _your_ apartment."

Still shirtless, Senryuu strode from the bedroom steadily and took a seat across from Mioru. The athlete's bottom lip pushed out, bemused, and he patted the empty seat beside him. "You don't want to sit next to me? Or is my emo contagious?"

The assistant quietly moved and sat down on Mioru's right, staring straight ahead with a controlled expression carefully positioned on his features. "Things seem to be okay with him now."

"Kind of," Mioru said quietly, resting his head on Senryuu's bare shoulder. "He's just so fucking cool and nice about it that it makes me feel really bad—or it makes me wish that he wasn't so I wouldn't still love him. If he was a bastard like Seishiro, I'd just wonder why I ever cared about someone like that and get over him, but he's just so fucking—I don't know, would it be really icky to say he's amazing?" He stuck out his tongue with a small smile.

Senryuu was silent for a moment. Then, "No," the assistant replied, looking down at Mioru lightly. He smiled back. "From what I heard, no one would wonder why you love him so much."

"I used to." Mioru looked at his lap, at his hands. "Back when we were in high school, when we dated, we fought so much it wasn't even funny—it wasn't the normal kind of couple-fighting either. We'd fight and fight and then we'd just get drunk, sometimes together, sometimes separately, and then we'd literally fight—like with punches and he'd even sometimes pull out his karate moves on me. It was dangerous, but he didn't care and I didn't care because I'd pretend I was kicking in a game. We'd fight until we were so angry we couldn't think about anything else and then we'd start having sex." His hands clasped together instinctively, tightly.

He went on, "And then the next day, it'd be all better even though we hadn't talked a single thing through. So the next time whatever we fought about came up, it'd start all over again because we never really solved anything. We just fought it out and then fucked and then it'd be gone and the morning after, neither of us would bother to bring it up because we thought that that's the only way it could be solved." He snorted softly and a sad smile tugged at his lips. "I guess—I guess after a while he just got tired of it—and—and when he saw what I had to do for my Task—I guess he didn't want me enough to look over it and used that to tell me that he's had it and he's leaving."

Mioru glanced at Senryuu's impassive face and gave another humorless smile. "And then, of course, there was all the cheating and the rumors and me just being an asshole in general."

"Your Task," Senryuu said softly, "that girl—I heard about it. Did you really—?"

The athlete smiled oddly. "I know that you know I'm an absolute jackass, especially after working for Seishiro and the others, but even though I videotaped what I did to that girl—I didn't actually do it. At the time, I thought I was being so noble by hiring a few cronies to do it, but in reality, I was just so fucking freaked out at the thought of committing an actual crime myself. So really, it was just me being a coward."

He nudged Senryuu. "Why? Relieved that you're not fucking a pedophile?" The soccer player shrugged. "Although it _was_ for a Task, and the Fluorite twins went down on incest for theirs." He grinned. "This must be why you hate being around socialites, right?" At the assistant's confused look, Mioru added, "Subaru told me."

"Maybe I shouldn't generalize all socialites into one big lump," Senryuu spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "The ones in your circle, the A-list of Japan as they're known—they really aren't that bad, most of them. It's just—most socialites—if they don't see a use for you, then they start looking at you and talking to you and giving off this aura that they wish you'd just fall off the face of the Earth and stop taking up unnecessary oxygen."

Mioru cracked a smile. "Well—you're not wrong. I used to be one of those oxygen-stingy-socialites."

Senryuu glanced down with mild surprise. His eyes were gentle as he asked, "What made you change?"

A flash of dark hair, glinting spectacles, and a building engulfed in flames raced through Mioru's mind as he tried to say, without his voice shaking, "Oh—this and that. You'd hardly be interested."

The assistant smiled, softly amused at the sarcastic downplay. "Really?"

The athlete widened his eyes into a mocking look of innocence. "I'm honestly not as exciting as you think—the big, badass Mioru Aoi is just a high school myth now."

"I think you're fascinating," Senryuu said simply.

Mioru felt his face flame, but he quickly said in a hastily put together dry tone, "Stop it, dear—you're making me blush." He stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes, and then grinned.

Senryuu laughed with a roll of his own eyes. He stole a brief, sly glance at Mioru before the athlete found himself flat on his back on the leather couch, knocked breathless by Senryuu's sudden weight. The assistant's elbows propped himself up on either side of Mioru's head with Senryuu's bangs tickling the soccer player's forehead.

Mioru felt his smile fade as their lips touched softly and Senryuu's hand crept into his dark hair, cupping the side of his face and tilting it sideways and upward and sideways again and upward again until Mioru's entire body was soon molded right up against Senryuu's, the arch of the athlete's back lifted from the couch by Senryuu's arm.

And as Senryuu drew away for breath, his eyes staring down at Mioru with gentle intensity, the athlete suddenly felt the breath he himself was trying to take disappear as he watched the way the light fell against Senryuu's dark, golden strands, illuminating like a halo surrounding his head.

Like an angel in heaven.


	17. Venn Diagram

**A/N: **I have no idea why this ended up so long. As far as my memory goes, I don't think I've ever gone more than 4,000 words in one chapter. Like, it's been so long since I started this chapter that I don't even remember why I titled it what I titled it. There was probably some deep, philosophical meaning to it-I just forgot what it was.

So anyway, nothing really happens in this chapter aside from development. You've got like a millimeter of actual plot within like five meters of development (mostly just relationship development and we all know what that's gonna involve *eyerollcoughMioru/Senryuuangstcough*.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Venn Diagram

Mioru would like to think that he wasn't an easy person to surprise, but these days, Watanuki sometimes had the soccer captain thinking that maybe he'd thought wrong all these years. The goalie had sprung up behind him during training so silently and suddenly that Mioru nearly dropped his weights regardless of the fact that Fuuma was firmly spotting him since Fuuma was just as shocked by Watanuki's appearance.

"If I'd dropped these," Mioru glowered, putting the weights down on the rack carefully. "You would've ended my career a few years too soon and I would've probably had to end your life."

Watanuki smiled faintly. "I'm sure." He glanced up at Fuuma, "A minute?"

Fuuma shrugged, clapped Mioru on the shoulder, and went to the other side of the weight room to talk to Syaoran. Mioru sat down on the padded bench and looked up at Watanuki. "What?" He stripped off his shirt and threw it at the nearest weight rack as he waited for the goalie to speak.

Watanuki seemed to be thinking on his words, wiping the sweat from his forehead absently. Mioru couldn't help but frown at the sight of the towel, realizing that he'd forgotten his own as perspiration started to drip and sting at his eyes—made even worse by the fact that he was a few weeks overdue for his regulation haircut and his bangs were matted onto his forehead. "You haven't been out with Kurogane for a while."

If Mioru wasn't hindered by the fact that he didn't quite fancy sweat trickling into his eyes, he would've held them wide open, unblinking, up at Watanuki's words. "Um—the fuck?"

A mysterious half-smile tugged vaguely at the goalie's lips. "Maybe you should do something with him—y'know, as friends. Friends do that, don't they?"

Mioru squinted. "Um—yeah—sure—friends do that, but right now, I don't know if you've noticed or not, but Kurogane and I are still having an identity crises as to what we are to each other, so I think it'd be great if you stopped giving me advice to do things that give him more reasons to kill me over."

"I gave you the advice to sleep with Senryuu," Watanuki countered peaceably. "And that went rather well, didn't it? You two seem close."

"Well, he's a fucking awesome friend," Mioru shrugged, "if that's what you mean. And he's good at sex—if that's what you mean, too."

That mysterious half-smile pulled at Watanuki's expression again. "Sure—that's exactly what I mean."

* * *

Seishiro was getting headaches again. And the pulsing in his forehead seemed to grow stronger the brighter the blond pianist standing in front of him smiled. He put an elbow on his desk and propped his cheek against his palm in an effort to look unbothered and his feathers unruffled—which was not a task to be taken lightly considering that his feathers had passed the ruffled stage and gone on to being-plucked-out-mercilessly-from-his-body stage.

"So," Yuui began pleasantly, ignoring the seat offered to him in front of Seishiro's desk (where normal clients were to sit) and settled himself on the edge of Seishiro's desk, swinging his legs. "Why d'you want to talk to me?"

The conductor wrung out a smile. "Not much—just wondering why you decided to show up all of a sudden from your self-imposed exile and start torturing everyone."

"My self-imposed exile?" Yuui echoed—his smile froze.

"Yes," Seishiro said, his headache starting to relent as he sensed an opening. "The exile you imposed upon yourself back after you and Fai graduated from college all through these past few years because you couldn't handle the ridiculous and unreasonable guilt you felt when you not only finally took Ashura, but probably because of all the happenings during you and Fai's senior year of high school. Am I right?"

Yuui's smile had vanished. It was replaced with a deadly, furiously dangerous gaze that had narrowed Yuui's eyes into icy blue slits. "That's none of your fucking business so you'd better get your fucking hands off of it. We're not kids any more—the fucking Maestro doesn't have to take care of me. It's the others' choice if they still want to fucking have you in charge of them, but I sure as hell don't."

Seishiro shrugged indifferently. "Really? 'Cause I recall Kamui coming in a few days ago, all dolled up in his emo aura, telling me that you told him that he'd always be K and you'd always be Y, and there were some things that couldn't ever change. So wouldn't all this make me still the Maestro and in charge of you?"

The pianist's face tightened. "Why the hell are you doing this, Seishiro?"

The conductor reached up and fisted his hand in Yuui's hair. The pianist winced as he was yanked down and forward until his face was centimeters away from Seishiro's. The Maestro raised his eyebrows and smiled softly—knowingly. "Because I think you still have a few things to sort out with Fai, and now that you're here, I'm letting you leave until you sort them out."

Yuui stared back for all of two seconds before bursting out into laughter. "As efficient as you are in solving people's issues, Maestro," he chuckled, bitter and humorless. "I don't think my brother problems are interesting to you most right now." His eyes sparkled. "So—what do you really want?"

Seishiro caught Yuui's lips briefly with his own. "Tell me what you know about Senryuu."

* * *

Fai glanced up from the screen of his cell phone as Yuui came out of Seishiro's office, closing the door behind him. The pianist had shaken his bangs over his eyes, hiding his expression—an action that Fai knew he himself did whenever he was still thinking on how exactly to hide whatever had just happened and what kind of smile he should force on. "That was quick," he said casually.

His brother suddenly snapped his head up, smile plastered on flawlessly, wide enough so that his eyes closed up and Fai couldn't attempt to discern what his twin really felt. "It's the Maestro—he just wanted to cop a welcome-back feel or two and that's that."

Fai merely looked back at Yuui's terribly insincere smile and felt his heart tighten. Even though he hadn't told Kurogane yet, the martial artist wasn't the only one who'd had someone they love avoiding them for the past few years. After graduation, Yuui had grabbed Ashura and taken off for almost literally the ends of the earth—or at least whichever end Fai was farthest from. Which meant that not only had Fai been unable to really see his brother, he'd been unable to see Ashura as well.

And the violinist had thought that once Yuui had Ashura, the pianist would stop smiling like that. He'd thought that they'd only agreed together to smile like that because it was easier than burdening people with their true feelings—and showing those feelings would only cause trouble for themselves anyhow. After Kurogane, Fai had stopped smiling like that. Why was Yuui still doing it?

"For a feel or two, you were in there for a while," Fai commented as they walked down the hall towards the elevators. "Kurogane was able to send me an entire chain of spastic texts—and you know how slow he is at typing with a touch screen."

Yuui snorted. "What about? His little angsty problem with Mioru?"

Fai smiled faintly.

"I think you should just sock him in the balls and get it over with," the pianist said dismissively, pressing the down button. "If he can't fucking admit that he loves that kid, then he doesn't deserve those balls. Stupid freshman."

The violinist bumped his head lightly against his brother's. "You really do suck as an upperclassman."

Yuui rolled his eyes playfully as they stepped into the elevator. "Honestly, how can you stand to be with someone not just younger than you, but like, _two _years younger than you? That's horrible."

Fai raised his eyebrows amusedly. "If I remember correctly, Ashura's older than you."

"By _one _year—and besides, I rock so hard at sex that it makes up for that anyway," the pianist shrugged, as the floors raced past them while the elevator made its descent down to the parking garage. Fai shot his brother a significant look and Yuui's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Don't give me that look—I'm sure you think Kurogane makes up for his two years, but I don't want to know how. I really don't."

The violinist's lips pulled into a small smile as they walked through the rows of cars. He pressed the button on the keys and unlocked the doors with a beep. Fai slipped into the driver's seat and looked once at his brother. "Speaking of which, I kicked Kurogane out tonight so he'll do something with Mioru that isn't just talking about their angst for each other. Do you want to drink with me?"

Yuui was staring avidly outside his window as Fai put the car in reverse and backed out. "I think I might be meeting Kamui."

Fai's eyes slid sideways to his brother before he smiled an odd little smile to himself. "Okay then."

* * *

Lately, Senryuu thought that Mioru must have been sent to him by God—and not in the matchmade-in-heaven-Mioru-was-Senryuu's-saving-angel-romantically-disgusting kind of way either. Senryuu thought that God must have sent Mioru to him just to drive the assistant insane because God must have thought that Senryuu's pointless life wasn't as funny as it could've been, especially when put in juxtaposition with Seishiro's dog-and-pony-show-that-the-Maestro-dared-to-call-a-life life.

Or maybe Mioru was just driving Senryuu crazy in too many ways to count and Senryuu thought he was going to combust from being unable to handle it.

Senryuu had thought his heart had been about to explode into bits of blood and tissue when Mioru had burst through his front door, still in his training clothes (which was an added shock factor considering that they composed of mesh shorts and not much else and that it was nearing December), sweating, and then proceeded to drape himself all over the assistant like a vine, complaining about how hot the athlete was and why the fuck did they have to train so hard when it was almost Christmas?

The assistant had just gotten home himself wondering why he also had to work so hard just because Seishiro was in a bad mood today and couldn't pour it out by fucking Subaru since the trumpeter was with Kamui out in the city. But then again, Senryuu had endured this for a few years already, so it was more an automated response than anything. He knew that once Seishiro's stress ball was done sightseeing with his brother, the Maestro would stop PMS-ing all over Senryuu's new tie.

Presently, Mioru was spread out across Senryuu's bed, still half-naked, and fanning himself with what was supposed to be Senryuu's notes for tomorrow's sixteen-Power-Point-slide presentation on the state of affairs of the Sakurazuka branch in Bangkok—or rather, Senryuu's notes-that-were-to-be-given-to-Seishiro to present to the Thai representatives.

"You'd better not get sweat all over that," Senryuu said, eyeing his notes worriedly. "If the ink smears, I'll either have to retype it or you'll find my dead body on the side of a road in Thailand. And it took me three weeks to do that."

Mioru snorted. "He's seriously not paying you enough to do what you do—personal assistants get you coffee and pens. They don't make you sixteen-slide presentations in English with Thai subtitles with Japanese notes and Thai translations to go with it. I'd be more worried about the flash drive that you saved the presentation and these notes onto than the actual hard copy I'm sweating all over."

"The computer I saved the notes onto crashed so I couldn't put it on my flash drive," Senryuu said.

Mioru's eyebrows furrowed.

Senryuu sighed. "Seishiro knocked it to the ground and then spilled coffee and wine all over it while Subaru was blowing him. They were lucky they weren't electrocuted."

"I, honest to God, don't want to know," the soccer player said, hands in front in a "stop" gesture. "I—just—no. As much as I love Subaru, that kid needs to learn to stop letting himself get pulled into whatever insane kinks the Maestro's got in mind."

"Speaking of insanity," Senryuu easily grabbed the manila folder mid-fan right out of Mioru's hand (the athlete pouted a scowl), "what possessed you to come over right after training without even showering? Or changing? Did you just hop into a taxi shirtless like that in the middle of November?"

Mioru snorted sarcastically. "Of course not, silly goose—I took the subway so the hobos could check me out."

Senryuu looked pained.

The soccer player jumped to his feet and threw his arms around Senryuu's waist, laughing into the assistant's chest. "God, you're so fucking retarded." Mioru emerged with his eyes playful and dancing up at Senryuu. "What—were you _worried_ about me or something?"

It was all he could do to keep his face its natural color.

But that seemed to make Mioru laugh louder and hug himself closer to Senryuu—who was still so busy on trying to prevent his face from bursting into visible red and so bewildered by the sudden contact that he couldn't bring himself around enough to wrap his own arms around Mioru in response. It wasn't as if this was the first time Mioru pulled an onslaught of flirting—complete with the random hugging and cuddling and Senryuu-killing-laughter—but regardless of how many times, Senryuu believed that he'd always get caught off guard, all intelligent thought process would be blown out of his mind, and he'd have no choice but to stand there like an unresponsive idiot.

Just like now.

"Wait—" Senryuu said, frowning in an attempt to gather his thoughts.

"Maybe I ditched the cool down and had Syaoran drive me over ASAP because I didn't like the sub Seishiro sent in your place because you had to work today," Mioru said with a grin and raised eyebrows.

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

But Senryuu merely got another cheeky laugh and a squeeze of Mioru's arms before the athlete drew away briskly, flopping back onto the bed spread-eagle. "It gets dark fast now, huh?" he said casually, the way Mioru always did—completely unaware of the fact that that cheeky laugh and close hug had just made Senryuu's heart beat much too fast to be healthy—completely unaware of how everything he did made up Senryuu's world.

"Well, it's almost the end of fall," the assistant replied quietly, sitting down beside Mioru's arm on the bed.

"Yeah," Mioru's voice trailed off. He glanced up abruptly at Senryuu, hand slipping into the assistant's, "Hey, I almost forgot to tell you—I'm going out with Kurogane tonight for, I dunno, like some drinks or something. That's also kind of why I came right after training ended—so I wouldn't have to sneak out or explain to Seishiro why I'm out with Kurogane."

_Could you explain to me, then?_

Could he explain to Senryuu why God sent him for the sole purpose of crushing Senryuu's heart into little splinters?

The assistant smiled lightly at Mioru. "Things seem really good between you two lately."

Mioru snorted. "I guess—I mean, we can speak to each other for more than a few minutes without breaking into a fistfight, so it's progress. Like I said before, it's mainly because he's so fucking cool about everything in general—honestly, if he wasn't so awesome, I wouldn't be trying so hard to make this work."

Kurogane was fucking cool.

Kurogane was so awesome.

There was never, there would never _be_, any room for Senryuu in Mioru's mind—much less in Mioru's heart.

"But you still love him?" Senryuu asked quietly.

Pain flashed briefly through Mioru's eyes before the athlete hid it away quicker than it'd had the chance to appear. But Mioru had always been the kind of person to wear his heart on his sleeve, meaning there was a huge difference between say, Fai, hiding something quickly and Mioru hiding something quickly. It was the same difference between an adult playing hide-and-seek and a child playing hide-and-seek. An adult would hide using all the knowledge of an adult—behind clothes in an already difficultly found closet, in an abandoned storage room with a tiny doorway and too many boxes for the seeker to search. A child would hide with all his innocence in believing too much of himself—under the bed, under a table, behind an open door.

And Senryuu didn't ever want Mioru to grow into that adult. He wanted Mioru to stay forever the child—forever wearing his heart pinned proud and hopeful on the front of his sleeve. The assistant would do anything to keep it that way—he didn't care how many times his own heart would be ripped and cut in the process of watching Mioru's heal over Kurogane, and eventually, watching Mioru leave.

Which was probably why Senryuu purposely asked that bastard question, knowing that it would bring the hurt to Mioru again just hours before he was going to see Kurogane. Senryuu felt like being an asshole because even though he wanted so fucking hard to be the selfless angel, he was still human and he knew it and he hated the fact that Mioru would never love him back.

"I guess I do," Mioru said back, matching the quietness with a small, sad, resigned smile downward. His eyes flickered up to Senryuu as the soccer player slowly sat up and offered the assistant a different smile—soft determination. "But," he sighed matter-of-factly, "I think it's about time I stop bitching to you about how much it hurts and work on it until it doesn't anymore." He gave Senryuu's hand a tiny squeeze and pursed his lips playfully. "Right?"

And then just as Senryuu thought that maybe he'd finally be able to generate enough hate to be a big enough asshole and make Mioru leave out of his own accord (and not because he didn't need Senryuu any more), Mioru did things like this and made Senryuu feel like the fucking worst jackass that ever breathed air.

Senryuu touched Mioru's cheek for a fraction of a second—just a simple hand-up, and then hand-down, fingers barely grazing the soft skin. The soccer player blinked curiously. "I guess so," Senryuu replied with a half-hearted smile of his own.

But if Senryuu thought he'd be able to get away without putting much effort in smoothing out his expression, he clearly hadn't thought enough since Mioru's eyebrows furrowed together and his gaze zoomed right in, full focus, into Senryuu's eyes. The assistant felt himself almost assaulted by the full on force of golden sienna. "You'd tell me," Mioru began slowly, "if you weren't feeling good or something was up, right?" The soccer player looked so seriously concerned that at this point Senryuu couldn't just feel—he could _hear_—yet another piece of his heart cracking and falling away. "You'd tell me so I could fucking make it better, wouldn't you?"

Again—the bastard was itching up Senryuu's throat, and he was just too tired to restrain it any longer. "You'd care?" he said softly. "I didn't know this was included in the fuck buddy—"

Seconds later, Senryuu found himself on the ground with a bruised lip, and a sore cheek with Mioru, flushed and furious, standing over him, hands balled into fists. "Asshole," the athlete snarled, voicing exactly what the assistant was thinking to himself about his previous words and the sentence he hadn't been allowed to finish.

The assistant gingerly touched the corner of his mouth and forced himself not to smile—for some reason, Mioru's punches, all of Mioru's fighting techniques were just so interesting to Senryuu, whether it was when they were wrestling and playing around together or when Mioru's temper blew up. He knew it'd just fuck things up more if he fucking smiled in the middle of a serious argument, and Mioru didn't remember that Senryuu was a martial artist just like Kurogane, which would at least make it more reasonable as to why Senryuu got so oddly happy during serious fights.

"I'm sorry," Senryuu murmured, looking up from his seat on the floor.

Mioru's jaw tightened. "Yeah, you'd better be," he muttered, and then suddenly plopping down right beside the assistant. He took Senryuu's face into his hands and turned it to the left and then the right, seemingly inspecting the swelling lip. The athlete sighed. "At least it's not a black eye—but you still would've deserved that, too, y'know. That was a jackass thing to say." The soccer player got to his feet.

"I know—sorry." Senryuu glanced up and their gazes met.

Truth be told, Mioru's expression didn't seem all that angry. If anything, the athlete looked irritated and apologetic. "Where do you keep your bandages and first aid shit?" He looked around. "Bathroom mirror?"

Senryuu nodded. "Yeah, it's behind that."

The assistant watched as Mioru padded into the hallway and disappeared through the bathroom doorway, the lights flicking on. Honestly, he felt like laughing. He felt like laughing in utter despair because even though he'd more or less stalked Mioru like the fucking creeper Kurogane thought Senryuu was for years, and he'd only known Mioru for the past few months, he'd still fallen too hard for the athlete and now he had no one to blame but himself for the impending heartbreak.

Not that there wasn't already heartache imminently present.

* * *

Life loved to fuck with Mioru. Life _had always_ loved to fuck with Mioru. Life loved to fuck with Mioru so often and so hard that Mioru had come to the conclusion that life really just couldn't get enough of being inside Mioru's pants. And so, recently, when Mioru had taken note of the fact that life had gone from fucking him as though it'd taken an entire bottle of Viagra to going completely celibate on him, he couldn't help but be shocked.

He probably first started noticing life's growing reluctance in their love affair when Kurogane had dropped by to talk to him every so often and Mioru could actually talk back and for some odd reason, even though it hurt, each time it would hurt less—like a healing wound with only tiny pricks and stings, and in retrospect, this was what Mioru had been wishing for ever since his heart had split down the middle in the first place.

There was no doubt that it definitely still hurt whenever he saw Kurogane and whenever he thought about the fact that he would never have the martial artist and all Kurogane was doing was trying to be a good friend and restore the closeness they'd lost because of Mioru's stupidity. But the thing was, Mioru had begun to think about that fact less and less, meaning it just wasn't hurting that much and Mioru could only be happy about life seemingly deciding to break off this long withstanding relationship. As good as life had been with fucking Mioru, the athlete's ass could only take so much.

However, just as Mioru thought life was finally moving on to its next lover, it came back with apology flowers and chocolates in hand, down on one knee, and of course, Mioru had no choice but to grant forgiveness, and the fucking resumed all over again.

Then again, perhaps Mioru had just been asking for it when he'd decided to pick up a fuck buddy thing with Senryuu. And with that in mind, it was clearly Mioru's own fault that he'd developed what he hoped was just a minor-would-soon-be-gone-with-the-wind, crush-like attraction to Seishiro's assistant. After all, he'd already gone over in his mind again and again that Senryuu was one of those people who had that book with the picket white fence and green lawn and the golden fucking retriever and the pretty girl-next-door housewife, children included.

And Mioru was the tack on Post-It note on the side of the page, simply being used as a bookmark until Senryuu got tired of it and moved on to just folding the pages or remembering his page number.

But really, Mioru wasn't all that concerned over this. He'd developed what he'd thought were true feelings every single time he'd had a fuck buddy, and the last time he'd developed "feelings" for a fuck buddy, it'd spawned into the most epically disastrous of relationships of sorts and now, years later, both parties involved were still trying to patch things up.

Namely, Kurogane.

And even though Mioru refused to ever say that he regretted anything with Kurogane now—mistakes and all—he certainly would rather avoid a repeat of what had happened with the martial artist. He wasn't about to ruin another great friendship by furthering it into a relationship he knew he'd just fuck up all over again.

Plus, this was all considering Senryuu even liked Mioru _back_.

Which Mioru considered highly unlikely due to the fact that Senryuu had seen Mioru at his worst and since there wasn't really much of a best to Mioru, Senryuu couldn't possibly have seen anything that could interest the assistant, much less attract him. And then there was the fact that Senryuu worked for Seishiro, meaning he probably had heard shitloads of Mioru's past antics from the Maestro and all the members of the Circus that came to harass the Maestro at his office on a regular basis.

In conclusion, Mioru didn't have to worry about getting into a relationship and fucking it up with Senryuu because a relationship was two people who loved each other and there was nothing in Mioru for Senryuu (or anybody, for that matter) to love.

It would almost be depressing if Mioru hadn't already been used to this way of realistically true thought for the past few years.

But he was used to it, and plus, he had a strong feeling that this was just another one of those times when you thought that you liked someone who was becoming a close friend because wasn't that the way everyone felt at least once? When you had a friend of the opposite sex (or the same sex, for that matter, depending on who you were), didn't you suspect at least once during your friendship whether you liked him or her or not? And if the feeling persisted endlessly, then you might risk your friendship for a relationship, but if it didn't, then you remained friends and Mioru had already risked his friendship for a relationship once before and lost everything.

This time, he was just going to remain friends. He'd rather he not experience the relationship no matter how good it would've been than experience it and lose both the relationship and the friendship. Besides, he really did highly doubt that Senryuu felt that way about him anyhow. Especially if the way Senryuu had sort of just awkwardly ignored the body-to-body contact minutes ago when Mioru had wrapped his arms around the assistant's waist—the athlete had noticed that unless it was during sex, Senryuu tended to shy away from touching Mioru.

He came back into the room with a pack of cotton pads, and bottles of bruise medicine in either hand. Senryuu was still sitting on the ground, perfectly in the exact same position he'd been in when Mioru had left. The athlete sighed as he took a seat on the floor because maybe another reason that he'd forgotten to factor in about why he fantasized Senryuu as more than a friend was because the assistant was just so fucking attractive.

It'd been a long time since Mioru had found someone who made his heart beat start up the jitterbug just from appearance alone—not to say that Mioru hadn't found anyone as good-looking if not more than Senryuu. Mioru was surrounded by the Circus almost daily and God only knew that if they weren't amazingly good-looking then who the fuck was? He just meant that he hadn't found someone who was so attractive to _him himself_—in a personal-preference-hitting-all-the-right-spots-filling-all-the-right-criteria kind of way.

And then there was the fact that Senryuu was just so fucking damn nice. He was nice in such a way that instead of making Mioru want to slap him (since Mioru often found that he couldn't stand nice people unless they were adorable like Subaru or that dancer Touya was fucking), Mioru just wanted to be around him more and more because it was the relaxed kind of nice—maybe he was more kind than nice, since Senryuu could be a snarky bastard when he felt like it, too. And sometimes the sarcasm felt like a boulder hurled at Mioru's forehead since the assistant really gave off such a quiet, obedient vibe that it was kind of like a nun saying she enjoyed giving the occasional lap dance as a hobby.

"I'll be okay, you know," Senryuu said as Mioru folded his legs Indian-style and scooted closer. "It's just swelling a little bit. It'll go down with some ice."

Mioru put down the cotton pads and medicine. "Crap," he muttered. "I knew I forgot something." He glanced up. "I guess I'll just get you ice later. Right now you'll just have to deal."

Senryuu smiled, slightly exasperated. "I said I'm fine."

"I don't care what you said," Mioru rolled his eyes. "So shut up and stop being all selfless so I can make myself feel less guilty for socking you in the face."

"I thought you thought that I deserved it," Senryuu raised his eyebrows as he watched the soccer player unscrew the cap of the bruise medicine.

Mioru took a cotton pad and held it to the small opening at the top of the bottle, tipping the dark liquid in and out until it soaked the white pad enough. "You definitely deserved it, you shithead. But that doesn't mean I don't feel bad for making you bleed." He hooked a finger underneath Senryuu's chin and tipped up the assistant's head. A smile tugged hesitantly at the corners of his mouth as he inspected the drops of blood that had gathered at the edge of Senryuu's lip and he placed the soaked cotton pad over the darkening bruise. "This feels weird."

Senryuu looked confused. "What does?"

"Kurogane and I—we used to have tons of fights, made each other bleed and bruise hundreds of times and way worse than just this," Mioru motioned at the modest purpling of Senryuu's cheek, "but I never felt bad. And I don't think he really cared either. I mean, it felt shitty because of what we fought over, but we never thought of the actual fighting. Like how normal people are upset about the words they yell at each other, but not the damage it does to their voices."

If anything, Senryuu's gaze was more puzzled than before. "So—is feeling bad for punching me a good thing or a bad thing?"

Mioru shrugged absently and grinned, taking a new cotton pad and soaking it in more medicine. "I don't know. It's just different."

"Oh," Senryuu breathed, as the athlete neatly finished patting the wetted pad carefully over the assistant's cheek and commenced to pat over the bruised skin with a dry pad. Mioru rubbed on a bit of salve that he'd found in the bathroom as well and then gathered the used cotton pads and supplies into his arms, heading for the trash can next to Senryuu's desk.

The soccer player plopped back down beside the assistant and sprawled himself over Senryuu's legs. He blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes thoughtfully toward the ceiling. "Do you think agreeing to meet with Kurogane like this is a good idea? Like, do you think I should go?"

"It's not like you can suddenly cancel this close to the actual meeting," Senryuu said quietly, touching Mioru's bangs and sweeping them to the side.

"I know," Mioru replied, containing a smile that wanted to slip out at the warmth of the assistant's fingers on his forehead. "I'm definitely going, I just want to know what you think of me going. Do you want me to go?"

Senryuu's hands slipped under Mioru's shoulders and gently sat the athlete up from his lap. The assistant stood and walked out of the bedroom, leaving Mioru to stare, bewildered, after him. "Um—Senryuu?" The soccer player stood up and followed the assistant into the living room where Senryuu had sat down on one of the sofas with the notes for the presentation in his lap, those beautiful silver-blue eyes scanning over the words.

Mioru stood in front of the assistant uncertainly, biting his lip and wondering why it seemed like this entire day, ever since he'd arrived at Senryuu's apartment, all he'd done was piss the assistant off repeatedly—one event after the other. He sighed. "Look, I know you freaking hate Kurogane and all so you obviously don't want me to go and I shouldn't have asked you—I'm sorry, like fucking really sorry—but I have to go. He's trying so I have to try too, don't you think?"

Senryuu looked up slowly, an indiscernible sort of smile tugging uncertainly on his lips. "I'm not pissed, and contrary to what I've probably been emanating through this entire time—I don't hate Kurogane. I don't really know him so I can't like or dislike him really."

Mioru squinted, more confused than ever. "So—then—you're okay with me going? Or aren't you? I don't get what you're trying to say because I know you're trying to say something because you may not think you're pissed but I think you're definitely pissed at _something_."

The assistant turned his gaze downward, away from Mioru. And as suddenly as this all started, Senryuu stood up and held Mioru tight against his body, arms wrapped around the athlete's waist. As surprised as the soccer player was, Mioru's own arms automatically reacted around fitted themselves around the assistant's neck.

"Senryuu?" Mioru's voice was muffled against Senryuu's shoulder.

He could feel the assistant's heartbeat beating in time with his own. He could feel—he was surrounded—by Senryuu's scent and body heat and _warmth and soft and muscular and gentle and his arms and around Mioru and Senryuu everywhere_ and it was all too much. They were too close and this kind of proximity wasn't ideal when you wanted to keep your crush-with-not-much-basis-so-thus-bordered-on-stalker-creepy-on-your-part on the down low.

Mioru, with a ridiculous amount of reluctance, pulled away from the embrace, just keeping his hands lightly on Senryuu's shoulders. The assistant's hands remained on Mioru's hips and it was _still_ too much for Mioru's attempts-at-down-low-ing all of this. He waited expectantly for Senryuu to speak. Senryuu's eyes were still avoiding Mioru's and it was kind of making the athlete mad. If the fucking assistant was going to make Mioru's heart beat that crazily then the _least_ he could do was make fucking eye contact with Mioru.

It was just damn proper etiquette, Jesus Christ.

"Is my face that awful to look at?" Mioru asked dryly after two-seconds-too-long of silence.

Senryuu's eyes snapped immediately to Mioru's waiting gaze. The assistant looked more confused and bewildered than apologetic. Not that there wasn't any apology in his eyes, it was just overshadowed by the surprise and almost upset that swam in those silver blue pools. "Sorry," he said softly, drawing away from Mioru.

Spectacular job, Aoi. Mioru sighed inwardly. Now Senryuu thought that Mioru was mad—or at least borderline unhappy with him. "No—I mean—no, Senryuu—I just—I just want to know why you're acting all weird when I brought up me having to meet up with Kurogane. I thought it's because you don't like him, but then you come out and tell me you're fucking Switzerland when it comes to him but you're still acting all butthurt so now I'm just really fucking confused and it doesn't help that _you_ look more confused than I am."

Senryuu breathed into a humorless smile. "Sorry," he repeated in an even softer voice. He plopped backward down onto the couch, but true to his word, kept Mioru's gaze. "Just—with Kurogane—"

Mioru raised his eyebrows.

The assistant smiled again—this time, a gentler smile. "I just hope things go well."

If Mioru's confusion was a bomb, the entire world would've exploded from the core outward at those words. His mouth had fallen open and he couldn't seem to find it in himself to bring it back to a close—in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if bugs started to nest in it when spring came around. "_What_?" His eyes narrowed. "Excuse me? I fucking beg your fucking shitty _pardon_?"

He looked to the ceiling for a few moments, biting his lips and willing his fist to stay put because it was currently already half-coiled and ready to make the bruises on Senryuu's face symmetrical. "Dude, are you having private fucking issues? Because you're acting like a right fucking asshole today and I either want to know why or I want you to just tell me to get out of your apartment because I shouldn't have to deal with your problems. We're just fuck buddies—I'm _not_ your fucking psychiatrist."

The response was another immediately whispered, "Sorry" from the assistant.

Mioru bit his lip and breathed in through his nose, willing himself to count to ten—_count to fifty_—and not break something because this wasn't his house and therefore clearly not his property.

He had a crush on an emotionally retarded twenty-three-year-old.

_Fantastic_.

"I'm going to change," Mioru said finally in a quiet voice, deciding that further discussion of this would just end up in property damage that Seishiro probably wouldn't want to have his name pulled into. He walked away from Senryuu, moving out into the living room to grab his clothes before heading into the bathroom.


End file.
